Benefit of Doubt
by AlaudeSketchbook
Summary: Every stories have some form of truth within them, as do every lies. Myths are mysteries meant to be discovered, or fade through time, to be forgotten. But one supposedly myth have raised a wizard as his own. Is it true or only a myth?
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: I do not own any of Tolkien's or Rowling's peoples, places, etc; I only borrow them. And I do not have any profit from it - it's only a projection of my imagination, no matter how strange (or anything you thought) it might be. And be aware that I might not update for quite a while - being a 12th grade science student took much of my time studying for Exams.

Critique will be appreciated, though. :)

**Prologue**

It was a very, very, _extremely_ rare treat for him that his uncle and aunt took him along into a family vacation, which was a place somewhere near the shores of England. After all, he was sure that he, the freak of the household, would always be left behind and unwanted during either vacation or celebration of the sorts. Like during the times that his uncle had ordered him to clean the house spotless until they got home from the family vacation, which was a great relief and a great disappointment for him in the same time. Indeed, he might not be treated badly for his relatives weren't home, but he never knew the new experience had he go to see new places.

"I told you Petunia, we'll see the sea for _this_ time! The shores of England, just like me and Dudley had seen in the TV, which is simply _perfect_." Uncle Vernon said, grinning smugly before glaring at him through the rear-view mirror as he drove. "But why is it that we have to bring the freak? Surely that Figg can babysit him like usual?"

"Vernon, Mrs. Figg had claimed that her cats had some virus that she just _has_ to take care of them by herself since she was worried that the _freak_ will get those viruses. As if he isn't full of diseases enough!" Aunt Petunia scoffed before turning to Dudley who had a fit. "Now, now Diddykins, don't bother the freak! I don't want you to catch his disease."

"Why didn't we just drop him at our house until we got home then?" Vernon glared at the road.

"Don't be silly, Vernon. I don't think we should trust him run around in our house without any supervision, or Mrs. Figg like usual, at least. Lord knows that we need to keep him in line instead of running wild. And in our house even! Besides, our neighbors are starting to be suspicious enough."

But still, the freak, Harry was happy. The sea, as Uncle Vernon said! Well, he never seen the sea before, except for those pictures from Dudley's books that he rarely open and torn, as a result of being in the care of the fat child. The soothing sound of which waves crashing into the coral reefs, he had only barely heard from his cupboard whenever Dudley open the TV with some channel about the sea. By the sound of it, the sea sounds so beautiful, much more beautiful than the house and the cupboard he was always kept in. And he didn't know if he deserved to see it.

Uncle Vernon kept on saying that he didn't deserve anything, and he took that to the heart. Maybe all of this was just a dream, but hearing from Dudley throwing a fit so loud _inside_ the car and the pain from him pinching himself, he was sure that this wasn't a dream.

In a fit of excitement for 'vacation' from his home that was so similar to prison that not even the most burdened 6-year old child was immune to, Harry looked at the scenery with wide eyes, silently taking in everything: the darkening horizon of which he thought he can almost see the shore, and the beautiful, wide green meadows beside the road. But Dudley took notice of it, and informing his parents about such – which resulted in him having to be silent and blindfolded by Aunt Petunia after being yelled at the puce-faced Uncle Vernon. He felt a wave of disappointment, but he forced his face to be neutral in fear of his uncle. After all, in his uncle's household, he was worthless and didn't deserve the shelter he was given by his relatives, as far as Uncle Vernon concerned.

It felt all too soon – which was about a few hours later – that Uncle Vernon stopped, none-too-gently opened the blindfold, and forced him to bringing the Dursleys' things that they brought for this vacation without any help from the older man. But Harry was used to it, even though his energy was gradually getting weaker due to no food during the journey. He wasn't allowed to eat when they stopped for a restaurant before he was given the blindfold. But then, he usually was given so little food; not that he had said anything about it, though. Little Harry was also given a time limit of which he had to bring all of the Dursleys' bags into the house he had seen, and he wasn't fast nor strong enough to lift them.

"You little freak! You're supposed to bring _all_ of these into the house! That's it! No dinner and go sleep outside where you belong!" His puce-faced uncle had yelled.

_At least_, Harry mused, _it was great that Aunt Petunia allowed me to bring my blanket_. Even if the said blanket he had brought was tattered due to it was an object of Dudley's possession, Harry was glad that he had something to shelter him from the night, and hopefully from wild animals that might be dangerous. He didn't think that wild animals might warm him more than the Dursley though. Except from wolves, maybe.

He, as was ordered, stayed outside of the house, looking at the sun setting over the sea. The sea was indeed beautiful, and the location of the house was lovely, actually. While it wasn't located on the shore he had thought of, it was located on a cliff and faced the west. But it was such a lonely place; he hasn't found any clue whether or not people actually live there. The steep position of the cliff had made the house seemed almost unable to house any living being; as a haunted and an abandoned house, even though the house was quite new.

He sat near the edge of the cliff, his blanket was covering his very-small-for-a-6-year frame against the cold night of the unfamiliar place, silently watching as the gentle golden light of the sun was finally gone, and the stars had set themselves into the sky with their silver lights, illuminating the quiet beauty of the sea. And he also watched as the moon slowly set himself on the sky, higher and higher. He listened to the gentle lulling of the sea, it was almost as if the sea was singing him a lullaby.

So focused was he on the scenery, he never noticed the unsubtle steps of another 6-year old behind him. But as he fell asleep, he had thought that he heard Dudley laughing gleefully that was similar to his game of 'Harry hunting' and the last thing he saw was the sharp edges of the rocks down the cliff. He hoped this was a nightmare before the blissful unconsciousness had claimed him.

* * *

><p>Dudley Dursley was 6-years old, and his parents always dote on him while setting aside the freak of nature of his family, which was his cousin from his mother's side. He never questioned upon why the freak was treated in such ways, but his mother and father always stated why: because he <em>was<em> a freak and unnatural, of which Dudley was natural. It was a fact.

He considered himself as a smart boy, just like his mother told him – whereas he always got low marks on his lessons at school. Well, he considered them as useless on life lessons that he always taught the freak, so why was it that he was supposed to know? He had also considered himself as a responsible boy, just like his father told him. He had, after all, kept the freak from having friends so that the freak can't spread his freakishness to unfortunate people. But sadly, he had broken all of his toys because of his uncontrolled measure of power since he always used them on the freak's lesson. Not that he actually use them; he much preferred TV and video games that all else were worthless.

But what Dudley didn't really know of – with his '_excessive_' knowledge upon life – was that people actually die, just like the cats from Mrs. Figg's household he tortured at times; just like the usual, _normal_ other 6-year old. And much more dense and violent than the usual normal children, even though he didn't know about such, and his parents had ignored that fact.

Being a 6-year old, obese child he was, he had thought initially that he had taught his freak of a cousin lesson about life by pushing him from the cliff. The freak could come back later or tomorrow for his parent's chores for him, after all. Just like the freak always do. But even if the freak didn't come back, he would say to his parents that he get rid of his cousin for them. It's a no-lose situation for him, and it will be the freak's loss and his gain. He can get his freak of a cousin's undeserved food!

His parents will be proud of him, he was so sure! They hated the freak as much as he did.

With a severely off-tune hum of music he had heard from the TV, he went towards the house that will shelter him for a few days later of vacation.

"Mom! The freak fell from the cliff!" Dudley said happily, walking towards his mother in the kitchen.

Petunia paused from looking through the refrigerator. The freak had left their lives by jumping off the cliff. While she was happy that he was finally gone, but didn't that kind of method of removing himself from the household was extreme? But no matter. "That is good, Diddykins! Tell your father about it!"

"I will!" Her son went to search for his father in the house.

Petunia hummed and made a thoughtful face. Well, the freak Potter was the son of her god-forsaken sister Lily, and she and her freak of a husband was murdered by some person called the Dark Lord in the community of freaks. The headmaster of Lily's old school had put the freak in front of her house when she was going to take some milk for her precious Diddykins, without any warnings and without any person who would actually explain to her about what actually happened; the freak was alone inside a basket, covered in a baby blanket that has a note attached to it. That Dumbledore had the nerve of expecting the freak be in their house, and not to put the freak in some orphanage.

The freak was nothing but a burden in her house. He had over-cooked and under-cooked many, many, uncountable food that was assigned for him to cook. He had broken some of the cooking pans, and he had cut some food material with uneven amount. He hadn't been able to clean the bathroom thoroughly; imagine what kinds of diseases her Diddykins can get within the unclean bathroom! He hadn't able to paint the fence properly. He hadn't able to weed the whole garden and made the shape into what she wanted to win the gardening competition in the neighborhood.

He had the nerve to cry just because of Dudley playing with him. He had the nerve to ask for glasses as he claimed that his eyesight was bad; didn't he know that they were _expensive_ for a freak? He had the nerve to score higher score than Dudley in the school they had allowed him to come! And that cheek with Vernon!

And now the freak had disappeared by his very own actions!

A nasty smile had made its way on her face. Oh what a glorious day! This called for a celebration!

She then went towards her ecstatic husband and son to inform that they would have to tell the freaks, had they actually come, that he had fallen from the cliff during their vacation, and that they have spent many days to search for him – which was not true at all. But of course, what choice do they have within the freak's business? They can finally have the normal life they wanted, with some small acting to the freaks. She was confident that her favorite boys can do so.

She promised to her Diddykins that he will have presents when they got home, and she didn't care how much it would cost her, for it was her Diddykins who had given the good news.

And of course, her Diddykins deserved every inch of talent he had displayed in front of his parents; his magic was better than all of the freaks anyways.

* * *

><p>He had chosen this path to walk near his house, as soon as he had felt that the sea was calling him in a way that was different than its usual call. The call felt distressed, and not luring like its usual call. It was just that different that he had the urge to sing to calm the distressed call, as his songs usually calm the sea, his long-time companion. He had wondered what had happened that the call of the sea was like that. Was it the Lord of Waters needing some help and took pity upon him? It was most unlikely.<p>

He didn't know that this very day would change his future – a future he had thought that he would wander alone near the shores until the world was remade. And he would probably never knew that the Star Kindler was smiling down at him from her dome of stars, nor Lady Weaver weaving a tapestry of a small family – one with him actually smiling widely for the first time since many Ages. He had never known that today would be the day to start healing his soul, although it was very much overdue; he had done things that was considered a great sin of many people, although all of them weren't of his own doings, rather because of him following the lead of his father and his older brother – people of great ambitions.

After half an hour of walking in the same pace, he had seen what had made the sea to call him in such way. A small part of the sea near the shore was red, painted by blood. If his sight wasn't mistaken – and he _never_ wrong – he was sure that there was a small body floating on the sea. And with the sea calling in such way, he knew he had to save the body and not let anything happen to the body – had the body wasn't deceased already.

He ran while he discarded his clothes – they were great handicaps for him if he had to swim, just like every other clothes, except for the swimsuit that mortals had created – and swam towards the body to discover that it was a body of a small child that seemed like a 4-year old boy that was as thin as stick. Well. It wasn't the time to observe, and he would like to save people if he was able to do so. His guilt had ensured himself to do that, every time.

He gently pulled the boy's body towards the dry shore he had came from, and tried to do such thing quickly, to avoid the blood loss the child will probably have; while the sea has its own beauty, the sea would be dangerous in such situations, and this was one. _The child was bleeding all over_, he mused as he checked the child's body, _he must have fallen from a cliff somewhere since no sharks nor any sea creatures would bite like this_. But as he tried to slow down the bleeding from the child's body, he had seen old marks that were suspiciously looked like the child was subjected to be whipped by using a belt.

It was a miracle that the child had once stopped breathing for a few fearful moments and finally breathes again, in his honest opinion. He had given many hours to tend to the injuries (he had brought the child to his small abode nearby), and he was forced to give his own blood to the child; the child had lost majority of his own blood to the sea, as his heart had pumped his blood so poorly and in low pulse that even _he_ can barely feel. The potions for blood from his friend shouldn't be used in such a critical condition – the boy wasn't stable enough to drink something from vials. He hoped the child wouldn't mind; his blood was probably filthy due to his deeds.

It would be interesting though. The child was probably the first mortal to receive the blood of the First-born without being born to one of the First-born.

The child had suffered before he had appeared on the sea in front of him. While he knew that mortals these days had discipline for children, he certainly believed that it wasn't brutal like this; the belt marks almost covered the boy's small body. But still the child survived, even from after fallen from a cliff. The child's soul should be strong, as not many people who were tortured had wanted to live like this child, even if it was unconsciously.

Speaking of which, he had felt something – _bad_ – from the child's scar. He frowned. He almost missed that, had it not because of his sensitivity and experience with dark creatures. He would need to consult with his friend about this.

He felt his heart wanting to reach out to the child, to raise the unconscious child as his own.

Perhaps a change was in order.

* * *

><p>Dumbledore was baffled. In order to make the old wizard to be baffled was a feat actually, no one had ever actually managed to do so – not even the Weasley twins with their outrageous jokes.<p>

He had put a tracking spell to the boy he had given a way so that the boy will grow up and ready to face Voldemort. But suddenly the tracking spell stopped, in its place, it told him that the boy had died or ceased to exist a la the parchment he had spelled so that he would know the condition of the boy. What in Merlin's name had happened with the Boy-Who-Lived, Harry James Potter? Surely he must be safe within his muggle relatives?

He then took it to himself that he will visit the Dursleys.

But when he came back to his office later in the morning, he found himself severely saddened and disappointed. Harry had indeed, didn't know of his wizardly heritages and disciplined in a way that was supposed to be very bad for a normal child's health. But it was for Harry's safety – namely, the Blood Wards. But he died due to him fell down from a cliff somewhere, and his relatives couldn't find his body after days of searching. Understandable, since the sea was wide and deep; and a body can be eaten by some water creatures within, and never found.

He heaved a heavy sigh.

Gone was the hope of the Wizarding World, now that Harry's gone missing, and died. Perhaps Augusta should be informed that it was his grandson was the only hope for the Wizarding World against Voldemort when he came back.

The Wizarding World will be in a state of chaos, had this small and important information got out to public. He hoped they will never found out so soon, or suspect anything once he had chosen Neville Longbottom as their Champion.


	2. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I do not own anything that was created by J. R. R. Tolkien (LotR & Silm) or J. K. Rowling (HP)

Never thought more people than I thought would like to see more of this small idea of mine... ^^; Late update - for I was lazy and sometimes lacking motivation to write.

Better news: I have graduated from High School! *dance* More free time to think... And draw. And read, I think.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 1<strong>

Canafinwë Makalaurë Fëanorion was once his name, before he took the Oath that was in vain; before he left his wife, his mother, his homeland, _his Valinor_ behind. Now he preferred to be called Maglor – the _kinslayer_. Golden Cleaver – _Makalaurë! _– he was often called, the greatest singer among the Noldor, which was one of the reasons why he was mostly called as the Mighty Singer.

He was the second out of seven sons, and the only one to survive. He watched as his brothers fall _one by one_, which had his resolve to disappear until he had been willingly to break his oath. But he did not. Held their limp bodies in his hands that were coated in blood, the scent of death had hanged around him like his robes that he wore every day. Deaths of people he had slain. Countless. Tears that had fallen were unnumbered. Blank eyes would look ahead to him whenever he walked. Blood flowed like river, coloring the ground _red, red, RED_.

On his guilt, he has traveled the coasts, only to sing his regrets to the sea until his beautiful voice hoarse. Lived amongst the children of the sun, yet did not become one of them, as he was one of the Eldar. The immortals. Those who claimed themselves as the children of the stars, for their love to the objects in the night sky that Lady Varda Elentári had created long before they had awakened.

He would reach out to other travelers, to share their stories, to heal injuries, and give them shelter (if one of his many and scattered houses that were all near the coast was nearby). His honor was no more, and it was his guilt that had made him to safe as many people's life as he can. And he was able to disappear from the group of travelers he was in, mostly, so that people won't know of his actual name. Thus he was very advanced in healing, and stealth, now that the Age had went forward to thousands years.

He became an urban legend of the travelers of many coasts known as Noir, as his complexion and accent in many languages seemed to made people believe he was French, and the name Noir – _Black_, was thanks to his dark hair and weather-stained dark and tattered cloak that hangs protectively around him, giving him a fairly dark-looking demeanor – even if his skin was paler than normal people, _after_ being under the Sun's rays for about twelve hours a day for many thousands of years.

Travelers of many places recognize him by his messy and long hair, his harp and his scarred right hand – the scar he had received from the Silmaril he had thrown to the sea. His title was known by many, but his name was known by few, save for several First Born who stayed in Arda that was now called Earth.

During his travels, he had met two of which called him their grandfather (in a sense) – Elrohir and Elladan – and they both had taught him art of healing – other than _his_ healing of course. They had taught him of cleansing wounds from dark influences, much like Maura Labingi of the periando being saved by his foster son Elrond; Maura had been stabbed by a Ring Wraith, the dark creature of Sauron.

_That_ healing they have taught had helped him with the scar the child he had found several days ago. He had been quite thankful to have several crebain under his command; he had sent two of them to Imladris to find the twins and help him about three days after he found the boy – and today was approximately the fifth day since he found the boy. He had hoped that they didn't thought crebain evil like during the Third Age where Sauron controlled all of those black-colored animals. The only good thing after the Dark Maia had fallen was that the crebain and those black horses had gained greater intelligence than the other animals of same species to understand speeches.

The child he had found was now sleeping deeply on his bed, while he waited for the child; sitting on a wooden chair beside him and holding the child's arm. After that blood transfusion the day he had found the child, he had seen a small and subtle change on the boy's features. Perhaps more changes would appear after that, but they would deal with it when the time comes. The boy's ears become more and more pointed like his. The small wounds, at the very least, were healing in a faster rate than mere mortals, and they were almost inexistent since a few days ago.

But what was bothering him was the scar that looked like mortal's rune.

How could a scar be dark in nature? How was he wounded by darkness? Was it similar to the stab of the Ring Wraith to the periando?

He was broken out from his reverie when he heard the boy sigh. The boy didn't show any signs of awakening then.

Maglor sang again, softly to the child, as if singing him a lullaby. He wished the child to awaken soon.

* * *

><p>It was dark.<p>

When he looked in many directions, all of the things he had seen were the same; pitch black. He had tried to walk, but his limbs weren't cooperating – he was just standing almost stiffly and his body felt strange. Was he dead? Or was this only a dream? He had vividly remembered that the last thing he remembered was – _what is it _– oh yes, with the Dursley on their vacation near a cliff.

It was when he was trying to recall the actual last thing he saw that he had heard a voice. No, not a voice – it would be an insult to the source of the sound. Someone singing maybe? That would make sense. But he didn't know what the person was singing about, since he didn't really catch what the person sang about.

And suddenly, his eyes felt lighter, and he opened his eyes…

…where the light assaulted his now-sensitive eyes, making him to stiffen and the person stop singing.

So he had been sleeping all this time?

Oh no, uncle Vernon will be mad at him for not waking up as early as usual and being lazy at not doing the chores – whatever it will be in the house!

But as he tried to get up from the bed, he swore someone had held him down to the bed somewhat gently, murmuring in some strange words to him softly, making him want to sleep again. He caught sight of the person who held him down. It was almost as if a star was twinkling at him in the form of a dark-haired man…  
>"Stay in bed, Little One," The man said, his eyes were gentle – much gentler than the nurse at school. His voice was so smooth, so he must be the one who sang to him… He wanted to hear the pretty voice singing again… "While your wounds have all healed, and I'm sad to say that they will leave more scars to your body; I fear your muscles were still quite weak for you to walk unaided." Wounds? Scars? Harry was confused.<p>

The man took notice of it though, somehow. He had given him a small and sad smile. "Do you remember falling from some cliff, Little One?" He murmured, his left hand was touching his forehead lightly – was he having a fever? "Your wounds were so severe that I fear you will pass." Pass? What did he mean about that?

Wait, cliff?

He clutched his head as the most recent memory hit him.

Sharp rocks. Height; falling. Water. Someone laughing.

Oh. _Oh._ He really _did_ fall from a cliff. It wasn't a dream. He was sure he had been lucky to be alive, but he was also sure that the Dursley would probably try and do that again. Where were Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon anyways? Were they going to be here and take him back to Little Whinging? Or will the man bring him to them?

What will happen to him?

"You will have to stay, Little One." The strange man murmured again, almost as if he knew what Harry was thinking about. "I am afraid that your current guardians did not give you what children needs, seeing that I had seen several scars in your body when I found you."

Harry blinked owlishly as he tried to digest the information the strange man gave him. "You mean I don't have to live with uncle Vernon and aunt Petunia anymore?" He asked slowly, grimacing as his voice felt and heard so hoarse. The strange man helped him to sit up on the bed and gave him water then. His body felt as if Dudley was sitting on all of them.

"That is correct." The man answered. "However, as I believe you have many more questions to me and I you, I must ask you to sleep." Before Harry had any chance to respond or contemplate about it, the man murmured some more strange words he had used earlier that had led Harry to the world of sleep once more.

* * *

><p>"You're saying that you found a child with a dark presence in his wound, pops?" One of the twins asked, as the three of them were sitting in the living room.<p>

"Elrohir, Eru knows how many times I ask you to not to call me that – and yes, the child has that. Would you go and check on him, for that matter?" The oldest among them sighed. "No child should be subjected with wounds and scars so grievous as that." He muttered. The twins could hear him loud and clear, though. And that was what catching their attention.

"Scars?"

"Wounds?"

They both asked at the same time, outraged. Of course; any elves alive would _never_, ever abuse a child, even if the said child was a mortal. Children were too precious, as elves rarely have many children thanks to their lifespan, save for the House of Finwë.

"Indeed." Maglor responded. "I have tried to heal all of his wounds, and I still fear for his life. There are several moments when the child stopped to breathe, yet it seemed to me that there is fire in his soul; he had awakened just moments ago before I sent him to sleep so that he will regain his energy and heal quickly."

"You should have told us, Maglor." Elladan said, upset. "In that letter."

"And what could you do, Elladan?" Maglor retorted. "I did say in the letter that this matter is urgent, and I am sure that you couldn't come any faster than you just did, with _all_ of your medical equipment, even!"

"But you can at least _tell us_!"

"And what," Maglor asked exasperatedly, "can you _do_? You can't go back to the past and fix everything or having revenge towards the child's wrongdoers. We are neither Eru nor the Valar. The child I found was a product of how cruel Arda was turning into under the reign of mortals. The least we can do is to heal him and take care of him. Doing a revenge on his stead will only decrease his mental capabilities that he will need to face the past in years coming. That, I am sure. His case is different from your mother, Elladan. He still has a chance to live in this shore."

Elladan didn't respond.

"Can we see him?" Elrohir asked quietly, after a small moment of choking silence.

Maglor took a deep breath. "You _may_." He said steadily. "This is the reason as of why I ask of you to come in the first place, as I said earlier. I need to know what I have to do to rid of the dark presence in his scar on his forehead; I fear I do not have the experience of doing such. I know that your father had once, at least, saved a person with similar kind of darkness in a periando called Maura on his shoulder. Perhaps you have the talent of your father in healing such?"

The twins of Rivendell remembered the time Sauron's power was growing, those times when the mortal they knew as a brother and four Halflings were within Rivendell in those dark hours, as if it was just yesterday.

The twins followed the last surviving Fëanorian to the child's room and set to work on the child's scar on his forehead.

* * *

><p>Harry was in the darkness again. Though this time, he was sure that he <em>felt<em> many things glowing far above him. He didn't see anything glowing, when he looked up to inquire what was glowing, however. The dark was almost comforting, he didn't think he had ever felt this good before.

"Wake up, child."

A voice!

Hmm, he was sure he had heard of this voice before... But when?

Harry thought long and hard (or so he thought), and remembered the kind man with the beautiful voice. Now he wanted to listen to the voice again...

"Wake up, child." The voice again! Harry was happy that the man didn't leave him like uncle Vernon and aunt Petunia always did. "The room is dark right now, so you can safely open your eyes without fearing light." The voice felt kinder than the nurse in his school. "I know you're awake, child." Harry can practically _hear_ the kind smile in the voice. The man, the last time Harry looked at him, looked very kind enough.

So Harry complied.

And it was an awarding sight for Harry. There was two people behind the kind man from earlier who was sitting right beside his bed, by the way, and they both had the same face! Twins? He didn't think it mattered, they both were as kind-looking as the man with beautiful voice. They didn't seem like they would punish him as uncle Vernon always do because he was too sick to do anything. Maybe they won't do that if he did his chores later on after he was well enough?

"Sir?" Harry croaked, grimacing again at his voice. It felt almost as hoarse as when he woke up earlier!

Harry sat up slowly, finding that his body felt light and stiff.

"Do you feel better, child?" The man asked gently.

Harry nodded shyly, with him didn't trust his voice after hearing it being so hoarse. Harry observed the man who was the nearest to him. Long, messy hair and gentle dark eyes were the first things he noticed from the strangely kind man. Perhaps he was a doctor of somesort? The doctor and the nurse - well, people who healed his hurts.

"Nice to know." The man said cheerfully. "May I inquire of your name, child?" He asked, a lopsided smile was on his face, making Harry to instantly like the easy-going man who talked strangely. "My name is Maglor."

"My name's Harry, sir." Harry responded the best he could.

One of the twins came to Harry with a glass of water as the man he now know as Maglor talked, prompting him to drink. Which he did, and then looked at the fore mentioned twin curiously.

"And my name's Elrohir, young Harry." He said, almost carefully, Harry realized. "The other who bears the same face as I is my brother, Elladan." He gestured to the man who was still standing behind Maglor, then smiled at him. "Nice to meet you, young one."

Harry gave him an uncertain smile.

* * *

><p>It took several weeks for Harry to be fully healed from the dark presence in his forehead ("Eru, it's a piece of some demented soul!" Elladan was horrified), and twice the amount of time to convince him not to do chores that his relatives had set for him for as long as he could remember. Almost every night into his full recovery, he always had a nightmare that Maglor had to sing his lullabies to calm the sleeping child. Maglor was so close into releasing the twin's wrath to the tyrants who made the child to be a slave, if it was not thanks to the child's innocence who didn't want anyone to hurt others.<p>

When Thranduil came to visit - that Sindarin elven king hadn't any intention of going after his son towards Valinor, but instead, built his own empire in the mortal's enterprises as the Greenwood Company as one of the richest companies in the world - he immediately fell in love with Harry's emerald eyes (reminds him of his home before the darkness claimed it, he said) and fussed with the confused child, giving the boy another name (saying that the boy must have another name if he had to live with Elves): Martur. Thus, the child had insisted everyone to call him Martur instead of his old name Harry after saying that with a new life, he should have a new name since he didn't want to remember his old life with the Dursleys because of his name. Not that anyone would blame him.

Harry, or now preferring to be called Martur, was very surprised when he was told that everyone around him inside Maglor's abode were immortal, and Martur was possibly going to be one of them as well. Martur then absorbed the twin's lessons on history and ancient languages like a sponge, to their delight. How could the Dursley willingly throw away a mind with a diamond quality? -they all often ask themselves.

The twins weren't much better; they called him Makalaurion that Maglor had to resist the temptation of banging his head into the nearest wall upon finding out. They reasoned that he certainly acted like a father with Martur, with innocent faces. Young Martur became some kind of a brother to them. Thranduil was more like an uncle rather than a father to Martur, despite the fact that he gave Martur the name.

It hadn't helped that Maglor himself had a certain fondness towards the no-longer-human child as a son, similar to the twin's father and uncle many years ago.

The fact that the child now bore his blood in his veins didn't help either. Not that the boy could help it, really.

It wasn't that Maglor didn't want to have young Martur to change his name or anything, he encouraged it. But why the twins gave his newest young charge his name was what giving him heart attacks. He would like to raise the child, yes. But he still felt unworthy of raising a child again. His hands were much more bloody than the last time he raise a certain twins, and he didn't have a stable home.

Thranduil didn't bother to listen to Maglor's reasonings and immediately graced him a new house in a small village near his Greenwood Villa somewhere within Great Britain alongside papers for adopting Martur.

... How did they made that decision without asking Maglor first? Or the child's?

Better yet, he also _had_ to wonder how was it, that the flamboyant (in his opinion), unique, Sindarin friend managed to create an empire of his own inside the mortal's community, seeing that it was mortals who had destroyed his beloved greenwood (though unintentionally), that had him within the circle of nobles in many mortal generations and enabled him to do almost practically anything (except for illegal business, of course).

"Atto?"

Maglor stopped his musing and look at the child who called him that in surprise. Surprise, not because of the young -elfling? -boy? - child sneaked up on him (since the child's footsteps were easily heard by him, who had many millenia living as an elf, who had much superior hearing than children of men; and while the child was very quiet for one that was once belonged to the race of men, Martur _still_ had a lot to learn about stealth), but because of what the child had called him. Atto. _Father._ Maglor stared at Martur wide-eyed in surprise. He hadn't expected that, though the twins and Thranduil had told him about that for many times already.

"What is wrong, little one?" Maglor asked, easily manipulating his tone of voice into that of a caring person while gathering the small child into his arms seemingly without any difficulty. Such was the talent of one who always (or used to, at least) perform in front of many people.

He masked his frown with a concerned expression to Martur. The child was _still_ too light for his age; 6 years as a mere mortal with the stature of 4 years old? Unthinkable! Perhaps he should ask Thranduil for a potion for growth? Not that he'd force that to the child; for an elven child to have a body of 6 years old, their age should be around 11 years old... And Martur was a mortal given elven blood in his veins; Elrond and Elros weren't this small when they were 6! (Maglor conveniently forgotten that they were 6 when he and his certain older brother captured them.)

Martur was wearing an unreadable expression. "Will you teach me to play?"

Maglor felt himself smiling. He taught the child right then and there, using his harp. The other residents of his house later found them sleeping peacefully under the willow tree, with a big harp beside them.

Maglor was not amused when he woke up later on, even if he did saw his son sleeping under a blanket he most certainly didn't remember putting on, as he found out what certain people had done to his face. He scowled. Make ups! Do they have imagination at all?

* * *

><p>Maura Labingi = Frodo Baggins<p>

Varda Elentári = Elbereth

Periando = Halfling; hobbit


	3. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** I do not own anything that was created by J. R. R. Tolkien (LotR & Silm) or J. K. Rowling (HP)

* * *

><p>Let it be said that the night was cold and chilly, to the point where small wildlife animals didn't <em>dare<em> to make a sound. The moon was hidden with clouds, cloaking every single thing that existed under the moonlight with shadows. The wind was roaring with sounds unheard to those who did not listen to the nature. Animals all cowered at an invisible predators lurking in the cloak of night.

Yet it was not so, inside a certain inn that was emitting warm atmosphere that the very night seemed to lack. There were sounds that were awe-inspiring, every sound coming from the small inn seemed to be dimmed, and put other voices that were used to sing to shame, had someone cared to listen. _Maglor's Gap_, the inn was called, the name was so famous in every corner of the neighborhood - famous for it's welcoming and warm reputation, allowing even the poor and crippled to have a drink along with the rich and healthy. _Maglor's Gap_ was also famous for the entertainers who always sung and play for people, who were rumored to be relatives of the owner of the Greenwood Company - for it _was_ the Greenwood Company that owned the inn's property. It was also rumored that the entertainers were meant to entertain the Queen herself, so beautiful were the songs that were sung - though every song was different to each other.

Novels written by Tolkien became famous in this particular neighborhood, though. Songs that were sung always inspired (or so it was believed) from Tolkien's books and took place in their events, most particularly during the Age of the Two Trees before the Fall of Noldor had ever happened, it was told.

A small figure appeared so suddenly a few meters away from the inn with a quiet 'pop!' that the animals around him scattered, away from the strange intruder with a stranger method to appear.

It wasn't rare for Filius Flitwick to help his friend to go to the muggleborns to convince them to take their education in the school he was teaching. In fact, he did it for every year, as childish as the reason was, he liked seeing the expression of the muggleborn wizard or witch and their parents as they saw the _new_ and _rare_ aspect of learning of magic that only their children could attend to. Muggleborns, he mused, were always in awe and always were creative with magic. Take his favored student, Lily Evans, for one fine example! Muggleborns have many potentials regarding magic and creativity, which were always needed for the lesson he, Minerva, and Severus taught for more than a decade, had they choose the career of either Charms, Transfiguration, or Potions Mastery.

The Head of House of Ravenclaw looked at the address written in the letter that he hold in his hand once before walking and entering the small inn.

"What can I help you?" A man asked him pleasantly. A strange man, who Flitwick noticed to be the bartender. He had gray eyes and long, braided dark hair, and he had a lean and tall body. Very graceful too. Flitwick wondered what about the bartender that had made him felt strange around him. He was known as Dan, if the name pinned on his clothes were true. He briefly wondered why muggles have to show their names on their clothes at times.

"Pray tell, where can I find Mr. Makalaurion?" He asked.

Dan paused, as if trying to remember that name within his mind. "Ah, you must mean our best performer!" He exclaimed. "He is playing his music along with his son over there, you see?" Dan pointed to a corner, who must've created the divine sounds, from the looks of it. A man was playing his harp and sang wonderfully, and there was a little boy blowing his flute to create some effects to his father's songs for their captivated audience of various background and status. There was no doubt that Dan must be related to them, though.

The man had messy and long, dark hair - it reached his waist! - and his eyes were almost similar to Dan, yet different all the same! Grey eyes, a few shades darker than Dan's, but something seemed to shine from their depths – like the stars. Pale skin that seemed to be glowing, that almost looked like he had never seen the sun with all the paleness of his skin. His face held some gentleness on it, as he sang his songs. Flitwick didn't mind that the songs were of some foreign language that he had never heard before in his life, but there was something of strange quality in his voice that had made it beautiful and magical in it's own way, much more magical than any voices he had ever heard.

The boy had almost the same features of his father, with the exception of his emerald eyes. Flitwick noticed that he looked like he was no older than 8. He frowned. It didn't seem like there was abuse or neglect in the child's body; in fact he looked healthy and his eyes showed how happy he was in the moment as he blew his flute. He had never heard of any wizards or witches having an illness that would stunt their growth - except for himself, with his goblin ancestry. Why, young Martur _should_ be 11 years old! Was the registration book of Hogwarts mistaken with this child's age for some reason? Or perhaps...

"I'm afraid that you'll have to wait until it's time for their breaks until you can speak with them." Dan said, seemingly not noticing Flitwick's assessment to the small boy performer. "This isn't the first time people go to look for him, you know? Those businessmen come and go, as he always refuses their offer to be a superstar - whatever it means. He sure as hell won't appreciate to be launched up to the moon while singing and having to leave his son alone, I am sure. You must know that he is absolutely terrifying whenever his son is used by them, and the last time I heard, the company of the businessman who did that was demolished in a night and all of his relatives cut off their ties with him during the day, leaving the poor bastard wrecked." Dan said, almost as if imagining good times. It had left Flitwick rather unnerved with the story, actually.

"Oh that," Another person had said; Flitwick had taken one look to the stranger and immediately assess him as Dan's brother. Twins, perhaps – Flitwick shot a glance to Dan just to make sure. "That's the most painless way, old Maglor told us." He nodded to Flitwick as a greeting. "Anyways, good sir – may I ask why is it that you want to look for him?" He asked. "Businessmen usually – at least – called us before they came, after that incident. They wish of no repeat for that incident."

"It has something to do with the schooling of his son, I'm afraid." Flitwick said calmly. "It has nothing to do about businesses as you good men have suggested."

"Is it safe to say that you are part of their family?" Flitwick asked curiously, "I couldn't help but notice the similarities between the four of you."

Their exchanged glance had not left Flitwick's notice. "You can say that old Maglor is much older than he looks, sir." The twin of whom Flitwick didn't know his name said. "Because of that, you can safely say that he is something among the lines of grandparents to us." He said dryly.

Flitwick, who didn't know anything about muggle literature that he didn't know the underlining of the unnamed twin's tone about it being the truth, had raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

Dan looked at the direction of the father-son pair of musicians' direction before ushering Flitwick and his brother to go to a room before Flitwick got to ask more about it. "Come, let us leave and get ourselves a private room so that we could talk more. The night is still young – however, I believe that we can make an exception to close our small inn early this night. Martur's schooling is crucial, yet it needs the opinion of the student-to-be child and his father, I'd wager."

As the door closed behind Flitwick and the unnamed man, Flitwick thought that he heard Dan shouting above the noises about closing the inn early and putting someone called Butterbur being in charge of escorting them out from the inn.

The Dan-lookalike hummed. "Where is my manners, I'm sure you already know Dan, what's with his name tag making his name obvious. Call me Ro. We're twins, as you can see." He then stared at the smaller man. "You are?"

Flitwick was about to open his mouth to answer when the door behind them opened to allow the very performers he saw singing and playing instruments earlier to enter. Ro had said earlier that he looked much more older than his face suggested, he found that fact to be unnerving – should he believed what he said. He didn't. Maglor's face looked no older than a muggle in his mid-twenties, or if he had some magic flowing in his veins, he might as well be a mid-forties wizard. Yet he didn't believe that either – he should be a muggle, one way or another. If he was a wizard, then it would be no need for him to go to the inn they seemed to call home to introduce their youngest to the wizarding world. And the twins looked like they just reached adulthood. Their parents must've married in an early period of their lives.

He then spoke of the wizarding world to his spectators, and of the school of magic that he taught, as the Head of Ravenclaw and the Charms Professor.

He never knew that the family he was talking to knew of the wizarding world long before he was born. The Eldar was never one to forget things so easily, so long their memories were. Not to mention that they always used Potions that was supplied by a certain Sindarin King of Mirkwood, who actually had his own Potions Mastery centuries ago under a different name.

He never knew that young Martur had been invited to schools of half-way around the world, as his very existence had caught the eye of many foreign schools aside from Hogwarts. But he didn't need to know that. All he has to know was that a young boy called Martur Makalaurion was invited to Hogwarts, the school of Witchcraft and Wizardry as one of the muggle-borns who need guidance when they entered the new and foreign wizarding world.

* * *

><p>While the people of the Eldar had known of the magical world for many centuries, the aspect of visiting the said world somehow never appealed to them. Wizards, in general, had made them think of Maia of years long before the ancestors of the wizards nowadays knew of were born. And if the history of the Headmaster of Hogwarts of which Flitwick bestowed upon them after seeing the oh-so many titles he has any indication, this Albus Dumbledore had defeated the man who – perhaps – probably helped the creation of Adolf Hitler's personality as the history knew it; of which really did made them think of the War of Wrath – with Dumbledore personating as a mortal version of Eonwë, and this Grindelwald as the dark force, Morgoth.<p>

It _had_ been a war between the higher power, back then.

Or perhaps, in the twin's case, made them think of a world full of old mortals that were like Sauron, or Saruman, or Gandalf – with staffs to either help them to walk or direct their magic to do whatever they wanted to do whenever they had great purpose to do so. It was one amongst a few things that the twins didn't want to think again. Five extremely powerful Maiar from Valinor during the Second Age had been enough. Not to forget their maternal grandmother who was often known as the people of Rohan as a powerful witch. It would be scary to have a place with many witches like her in the first place.

Or in Martur's case, it had made him think of the stories of Merlin whenever he went into the public library to read about some things like fantasies and mathematics. Not that he knew that it wasn't _that_ different from the age of Merlin, in the Britain Wizarding world. He chose to go to Hogwarts, in the end; it was the nearest magical school to the place he called home. However, half of his mind was into Beauxbatons and a quarter of it was into that school in Japan. What's the name again? Mahouto-something?

Not that they spoke of anything relevant to wizards or Maiar in general in front of Flitwick when he picked Martur and his father to Diagon Alley, however.

"How fares you in this great day, Professor?" Martur asked, when the small professor had made his presence known in front of the small inn he had taken residence along with his father and his twin uncles. His small frame was almost shivering with excitement, and his tone of voice had indicated that he was somewhat-eager to see this wizardry shopping place that Professor Flitwick called Diagon Alley. The child idly wondered if there was another wizardry shopping place called Vertic Alley or Horizont Alley when the small professor had mentioned Diagon Alley in passing.

If Flitwick wondered of his different speech than other people, he either ignored it or didn't mention it.

"I'm fine, thank you." Flitwick chirped. He was obviously pleased with Martur's politeness, as many children of whom he taught never really asked him that particular question, and many of the staff never asked. "How about you, Mr. Makalaurion?"

Martur's smile was a sight to see. Flitwick found himself wanting to see the child to smile more. "I am fine, professor. I find myself curious of Diagon Alley, you might say. I believe _atto_ is the same way as I am."

There was one of the many words that Flitwick wondered about during his meeting with the family last night. Some words that sounded foreign, but graceful. Young Makalaurion seemed to use that word to describe his father.

"Please, do come in. It will be most disgraceful for us to make you wait in front of our small abode, out of all things." Martur said, inviting the small professor to the house/inn. "At the very least, have a tea, and perhaps, a proper tour in _Maglor's Gap_ before we set out to the shopping site."

Flitwick inclined his head. "Well then!" He then entered.

Martur lead him past the big room directly behind the door where Flitwick was sure it was where he talked with the boy's family last night. Flitwick noticed for the first time how different the inn felt compared to last night – it was calm, though still as homey. The walls of the room was decorated with paintings – full of war with creatures that looked so similar to dragons or werewolves (or, much more alarmingly, creatures that were disturbingly familiar to goblins, though these creatures were bigger and much more uglier than goblins), and occasionally, beautiful woods and cities – so different instead of the bare room that was needed for many people to come over and watch the performances of Martur and his father.

Martur took notice that Flitwick was observing the paintings of the room when he lead them across into the door that would lead into the living room. "Uncle Thranduil – my godfather – gave it to us after he recovered that piece from a tablet long time ago, since he knew how much our family hold the value of a history that people calls fairytale. You know, that piece," Martur pointed to the nearest painting to him, which was his left – showing the picture of two forces; one of people and the other was of what the Ministry now claimed as Dark Creatures, "is called as _Dagor Nirnaeth Arnoediad_, happened in the First Age. The High King of that time was slain in battle against the army of Morgoth, under the guidance of his oath-taker cousin. Sad history, it is."

"_Dagor_ _Nirnaeth Arnoediad_, Mr. Makalaurion?" Flitwick echoed, tasting the foreign words in his tongue. The language felt more ancient than the language he always used for his spells, and his magic felt wanting to try to use it, almost as if his magic knew more of the language instead of Latin, seeing the strange language as an old friend.

"You know, from the Silmaril-" Martur said, before he formed a strange face expression. "You know what, never mind. Do Maiar," Ah, there was a word that Martur used to describe wizards, "read the literature of non-magical folks?"

"I don't think most of us do, Mr. Makalaurion." Flitwick answered apologetically.

"Ah, shame." Martur said, shaking his head. "People seem to forget the history as the next generation come by, preferring to think of them as stories. The Word of Ilúvatar is also one of the casualties of the forgetfulness of people."

There were many other paintings of which Flitwick remembered then, but never known the meaning of each, other than the so-called _Dagor_ _Nirnaeth Arnoediad_ or the strange Ilúvatar name that was claimed as forgotten by little Martur. Not even then, he understood what the meaning of the strange name was, nor why was it that many of the paintings held the mood of melancholy. He didn't understand of how rich the history within the adults of the house aside from him, even branching into each of them knowing several people in the history that were famous personally, such as King Arthur and Merlin. Both of which reminded the twins to their foster brother and a certain wizard that were within the Fellowship of the Ring.

For Flitwick, Martur's first impression to him was, 'this child will get along so well with the Xenophilius's child, I'm so sure.'

* * *

><p>"Welcome, gentlemen, to Diagon Alley." Flitwick said, watching the curiosity that expressed itself in the face of his soon-to be student. A childish curiosity that Flitwick himself would never be bored of, even after seeing it for many times. Those emerald eyes lit up like jewels they were, almost as if the owner was given a great gift for his birthday.<p>

"_Atto_! _Atto_! Look at that! Or-" Martur gushed as his father, almost dragging him if it was not for Maglor's stern expression – though amusement was present in his eyes – and words not to do such when they arrived.

"Martur." Maglor said.

"Oh, right." The child smiled sheepishly at his father.

"Shall we continue then?" Flitwick asked.

"Of course." His father said, smoothly. His scarred hand was gripped by his son's much smaller hands, as they all ventured towards their first destination: Gringotts.

Maglor stiffened at the first sight of Gringotts; his mind filled him with goblins that served under Morgoth and Sauron during the First Age and beyond, haunting deep inside the mountains where Dwarves dwell. Destruction and death followed them as they gleefully cut down their foes, which always happened to be Dwarves, and kept the Dwarves' gold to themselves greedily.

Yet, the two goblins that guarded the wizarding bank didn't repulse under Sun's rays in disgust, as all of the goblins and others of the Dark Forces did of old. They didn't even look like the goblins of old, and looked much similar to a cross between a periando and goblins – with periando's small and stocky stature and the unpleasantness of goblins of old. They didn't attack the closest mortal Maiar to them, though. Good. Maglor didn't bring his sword for such occasion as _shopping_, after all. Shopping in modern world would require him not to bring such weaponry as it would cause everyone in vicinity to panic and arrest him.

"Goblins?" Maglor asked, his voice was cautious, though his posture seemed casual.

"Oh, of course! Goblins manage our bank, Maglor." Flitwick used his given name, as Maglor had insisted. "Be respectful to them, and they will be respectful to you. Although I can't say much as the whole goblin country, sad to say." It was then both father and son realized why the small professor was, well, small, the size of goblins, really, and his hands almost looked like claws that the goblins possessed in some occasion. One of Flitwick's parents must have a goblin ancestry.

The fact that Flitwick greeted the goblin guards with such familiarity and warmth only solidify what they had just come to realize.

Gringotts was an impressive building made of marbles. Majestic, imposing, and proud. The building almost reminded Maglor to the days of old, had it not the fact that it was _goblins_ that had created the building. It had been centuries, hundreds and thousands of years he had seen actual goblins, and yet this version of Magical World goblins had threw him off the loop. It was impossible for goblins of old to create something of their own instead of destroying, after all. Not to mention that they can only create things _if_ someone they respect and actually fear like Morgoth, (according to Elladan and Elrohir) Sauron, or Saruman to direct them. And from the looks of it, it seemed that goblins really did create all of this on their own, yet none of the gold felt tainted.

The economics of Wizarding World were in the hands of goblins.

Maglor resisted pinching his nose. What has the world has coming to? Goblins, for Eru's sake, _goblins_! Those creatures that were originally Elves before Morgoth got his defiled hands on them to experiment and became yrch – and goblins were of the smaller breed! Goblins!

He was only much more thankful that his son was much more open minded than he. With a person like that, it wasn't really easy to surprise them with the condition of the world nowadays. He had lived for longer than mortals can remember, so it might be difficult for him to accept things so sudden. It was his most often used excuse. Though it was fine for the twins and Thranduil since he was the oldest of the Eldar remaining in Middle-Earth that was now known as Earth, and at least he was learning out of his own free will.

But really, _goblins_! For a few moments now he had trouble believing the fact. The next thing he might know was that many Uruloki from the First Age still existed. The next few years, he knew he had jinxed himself by thinking of such.

"What can I do for you?" A sharp-edged tone had asked, it was a goblin sitting in a tall desk, writing with a quill, looking as if his time was more important than theirs. It was then Flitwick realized how tall Maglor was. Sometimes lightings and several other factors can create people to look either shorter or taller than their actual height. Maglor was taller compared to other wizards, making Flitwick believe that he was – at least – of American descent – or some people whose height was really tall. He should be almost a head taller than the tallest wizard among the British Magical Society. It was a wonder why his son was so small.

Maglor spoke, with his most polite tone. "I would like to create an account in Gringotts for my son under my name, please, sir goblin."

The goblin grunted. "Name?"

Maglor paused, as if deciding what kind of name he'll use. "Canafinwë Makalaurë."

"May I have a sample of your blood please?" The goblin asked, giving him a knife. Maglor cut himself and let several drops of his blood pour into a small bowl the goblin had provided. Looking at the bright blue glow in the bowl, the goblin seemed to pale, and his eyes widen visibly. "Of course, good sir. It can be arranged." He said, his voice was now respectful – almost bordering into fearing the Fëanorion. "NAGNOK!"

Maglor frowned, as he didn't understand what was happening while he read the expression of the Gringotts Head Goblin, as Flitwick narrowed his eyes in confusion. Never in his life, had he seen such an extreme change of expression on a goblin kin of his – perhaps the last name that Mr. Makalaurion's father had was powerful and influential like the pure-blood wizards at some point? Why Maglor's last name was different than his son's in the first place?

"Yes, Head Goblin sir?" A goblin who was seated not far away on one of the lower desks had immediately answered, his posture was alert.

"Please take Mr. Makalaurë, his son, and Filius to Conference Room number 2."

"Gladly, sir." Nagnok said, and moved towards the trio. "Follow me."

And they were lead deep into the bank.

Conference Room number 2 was spacious, almost as spacious as the main hall of which the three of them met the Head Goblin. As Nagnok left the three of them in the room, they were required to wait for a few moments – of which reasons none of them knew of. And had the thought of the name Fëanor was famous in the wizarding World passed in Maglor's mind, he dismissed of it immediately, knowing that the significance of the name had disappeared from the minds of the mortals. _Especially_ of Dark Forces, seeing that long time ago they lacked the mind to remember such an _elven_ name.

Maglor did not jump when he was suddenly addressed by a goblin that stepped inside the Conference Room, so deep in thought he was.

"Maglor Fëanorian, also known as kinslayer, the Mighty Singer, the High Prince of Noldor, and also, Canafinwë Makalaurë Fëanárion – the second and only surviving son out of seven sons of the legendary Elf who possessed the soul of fire." The goblin sneered, almost as if mocking the tallest within the room. "I, Gringott, welcome you personally to the Gringotts bank that is owned by my family for centuries. It's an honor to have the oldest being in the world as we know in this very room."

Maglor didn't show any outward reaction other than a simple frown. How in Eru's name did the Dark Creature managed to know his name and history – and his father? "I admit that I haven't heard my name in my own native language for many years," _despite the wrong pronunciation_, "but I had to wonder how is it that you acquire that information?" He asked, his voice was calm, just as usual, yet Martur gripped his father's hand in almost-fear. Flitwick was bewildered at the fast-paced speed of change that was happening.

The goblin grinned a terrible grin. "Círdan the Shipwright had left behind massive information about the Ages of the Sun and Moon alongside the Age of the Two Trees, High Prince. Those forgotten histories, histories that no minds of Men remember – or know of that are true, from what I've seen from the muggle world."

"Shame." Maglor had said, agreeing with the last statement. "Mortals are always forgetful. With mortals, histories become legends and myths – and even fairy tales, as they call them."

"True."

"Yet I wonder now, that why is it that you call upon my name, drawing me in, deeper into a goblin's _territory_, knowing your ancestor's history with my people?" Maglor asked. His hand was subtly pushing his son behind his tall frame, out of the sight of the two goblin-descent creatures within the room.

"So that we can make a proposition for you, High Prince." Gringott answered without missing a beat. "Many of the gold were of your people, and with them, came the blessings of which even us can't touch after these thousands of years, that we call your blessings as the blessings of the nearest kin to the gods. All of them belong to you, as you are the nearest kin to the last owner of the gold – which are the Eldars, obviously. Also, of the fact that we would like a person to decipher the elven writing of your people. Who else will be better on those jobs other than the son of the creator of those elven characters?"

Maglor seemed to ponder for a moment. "And what do I got out of the job, goblin?"

Gringott glanced at Martur's direction fleetingly with a sneer. "More gold, and protection for your son, High Prince. The goblin protection in the form of accessories that are covered with runes and spells that it is said within the wizard society that no one had successfully breached yet."

There was a tense silence that one may hear a pin drop somewhere within the room. Maglor's face was unreadable. "How can I know that you will be true to your word?"

Gringott was quick to make an oath that would strip him of his magic and position had he not done what he promised to the eldest being on the room, right after that.

Maglor looked satisfied at that. "You have yourself a deal, Mr. Gringott. I shall send you a letter of when I shall start working."

One thing that Maglor didn't particularly like here in Gringotts aside from goblins, it was probably of how his name was still feared and known, almost similar to what had happened once upon a time when he was called as Kinslayer during the First Age alongside his brothers.

* * *

><p>Flitwick never before met someone who had met the high standards of the owner of the Gringott's bank that the said owner had to personally ask for the said someone into doing such things that requires other forces than goblin's magic. Usually it was the other way around, what's with Bill Weasley's occupation – he was the one who seeked out the head of the bank right after he graduated from Hogwarts to become a curse breaker, Minerva had told him. To think that the father of the soon-to-be student he has was of an ancient creature that existed before the sun and moon, like within the stories that his father often told him about from the goblin history archives – those of which the goblins name them <em>star-kind<em> in Gobbledegook! Maglor Fëanorion! To think that he only properly remembered that name after they went out from the bank whose goblins he was always familiar with.

Or better yet, to think one of them actually existed after all these years! He was once told that it was estimated that at minimum, those goblin history archives aged for more than the time Hogwarts was built. And to think that – that-! Only those of high position inside Gringotts only know of such information that they actually existed!

It was interesting, and he hoped immensely that today wasn't the last day for him to meet the taller man – no, Eldar.

There were elves in the wizarding world, yes. However, they were not immortal, though they do live for a long time, and they seemed so different than this particular elf. The most known by people in this place was house-elves, which was of course, very different than the Eldar, as the Eldar didn't act like them at all; graceful, and did not see the person or family they bonded with as masters. And they did not live forever just like Maglor did – and perhaps, there were a few others, Flitwick was hoping to meet the others; he suspected that the twins were of the Eldar too.

They quickly went after the shops, to buy for the things Martur, son of Maglor would need in his future days in Hogwarts. Flitwick hoped that he would be in his House, unique and intriguing the child was. Martur had shown some interests in a book of spell crafting in Flourish and Blotts – one subject that shouldn't be taken lightly and it was difficult to create a spell enough – that would require him to pursuit some more knowledge and practice to do what the book was written. Madam Malkin had initially thought that young Martur was a child with a growth spurt that his father needed to buy him new robes before she was told that he would be a new Hogwarts student this year.

Then it came the moment when the three of them stood before an old shop that Flitwick had entered for the first time when he was eleven himself. The Ollivanders Wand Shop was looming in front of them. Gloomy, and the building seemed to be needing quite a lot of repairs ever since the last time Flitwick went there to escort his new students – which was a year ago. It was amazing how the reaction of which the students picked up their new wands could be very destructive at times…

Martur seemed to be calm though, even if he knew of the very time he would receive the tool that would help him to do magic. Very different than other children he always escorted – the muggleborns were always hyperactive, bouncing with nervousness during such time. This one was confident – he did not exaggerate like the last he heard of that Malfoy child from Pomona when she saw him. This one was much more mature, despite his small frame. A perfect student model.

They entered the shop.

The shop was full of long, dusty boxes inside the many shelves, and dust. Untidy and tiny, yet it almost seemed to be giving off mysterious aura about it. It was dark too – thanks to the darkened windows and the flying dusts. It showed that Ollivander never cleaned his shop, to Maglor, making him to frown at the pitiful state of the shop. Had the owner ever cleaned his shop for at least once in a while? Or at least open the window for ventilation – for clean air. Although he must say – the strong scent of wood in the small shop really did remind him of home or the forests. Thranduil might like this shop, if it was not because of that smell. He came to be proud of his Greenwood – that was called as Mirkwood thanks to the Necromancer during the Third Age – and still liked to brag of his old kingdom to his godson, whenever he saw the lovely green emeralds for eyes.

The very air felt cramped with magic, but a different magic than what Maglor had known since the Age of the Two Trees. Maglor would definitely speak of this shop to the twins, as he hoped that they would know if the magic was similar to the Maia that always come to and fro Imladris.

Neither father nor son jumped at a new voice, as they heard footsteps with their superior hearing. "Good evening, gentlemen." For it was, indeed, evening – their shopping took quite a bit of time. "Mr. Flitwick! 10 ¼ inches, hazel with the core of a dragon heartstring. Great for charms. You keep maintaining its pristine condition, I hope?"

Flitwick smiled fondly at the mention of his wand. "Of course, Mr. Ollivander."

Ollivander was an old man, his pale silver eyes seemed ancient and able to pierce their souls. Martur was unnerved by those other-worldly eyes, but his father seemed to be relaxed with such scary fact. His eyes swept into the other two in the room aside from Flitwick. "Now, which one of you shall purchase the wand?"

After the introductions, Martur was given a wand to wave, which made him felt like an idiot and looked ridiculous. When it didn't work, or perhaps – there were several times when the wand became aggressive, Ollivander quickly replaced the wand with another, though he became increasingly _happy_ instead of frustrated for some reason. There were one or two intervals of which a new Hogwarts student entered and got their wands almost immediately.

It repeated until Ollivander ran out of wands.

"Strange, it seems that none of the wands wants to choose you, young Makalaurion. I was so sure the last wand would suit you." Ollivander commented. "I never have such case where I need to craft a wand like this."

Maglor paused in his conversation about the ancient history before the goblin history in the wizarding world was written with Flitwick. "Mr. Ollivander, what are the requirements of an object to be a wand?" He questioned.

Ollivander gestured the three of them to enter the deeper part of his small shop. "A wand core, Mr. Fëanorion, required to be coming from a living magical creature and they will act as the conductor of the magic coming from the wizard's core. It actually depends on what kind of creature the wand core was taken from and the magical core of the person who will be chosen by the wand – especially with the different wood wands." He explained. "Each creature has their own unique personality, which make each wand cores to be different from each other.

"There is also a wood wand, which obviously the wood used as the body of the wand, withholding the magical material inside it, and acts to direct the magic that was conducted by the wand into a specific area where you want the certain magic to go to. A wood wand often shows the characteristic of a person and corresponded with dates and months of a Celtic calendar, at times. With those two combined, the magical core will influence the wood to choose the right person as a partner of magic."

Maglor's lips quirked up into a smile. "Then there will be no reason that my hair and the wood of my harp can't be used for this occasion, is there?" He asked.

Ollivander paused, then looked at Maglor with a raised eyebrow. "A wizard's hair and a harp wood? That's unusual, but not unheard of."

"On the contrary belief, Mr. Ollivander, I am no human, much less Maia – or wizards as you call them." Maglor said, amused. "If this Ministry of yours knows of my people's existence, they will undoubtedly call us magical creatures, although my people are undoubtedly older than Men and immortal – such as Men always think of themselves higher than other creatures. Yet, with the goblin's insistence, they did recognize my son and I as a different species entirely from Men, although our species really are close to each other. I am not surprised that you think of me as a wizard, as my people did use magic in a different way than wands. I am what you people call an immortal elf – the _Eldar_.

"As for the wood, my harp was created by my father who was once known as the greatest smith of his time, using the branches of a silver tree of which flower become what you know as the moon. Telperion was once his name." Maglor smiled. "I need not a harp for my songs, as my voice is said to be more than enough for me to sing the tales of centuries old. I have never used it since a few years ago when I taught my son to use harp the first time; I was using my own handmade harp for my songs. It became my son's though I was planning to tell him in another few years when he's more adept to playing harps.

"I trust that will be satisfactory?"

"But _atto_!" Martur protested, looking at his father with wide eyes in surprise. "_Haru_ made that for you! Why give it to me when my voice and skill aren't as good as yours?"

Maglor smirked. "You have my blood flowing in your veins, _yondo_. The newer generation, I've heard, always will surpass the older ones. It works to my brother's line – if your uncles ever told you of the stories about Annatar and your cousin Celebrimbor, that is."

His son spluttered. "But _you're_ the one who are dubbed by everyone until now as the Mighty Singer! It _will_ take me a _lifetime_ of an Eldar to finally rival you, and _not_ surpass you! Celebrimbor only surpasses uncle Curufin and Grandfather in smithy (for me anyways) because he made amends with uncle Curufin's past by _not_ making the same oath as you and my every other uncles did, and also he's the only one between the three of them to _not_ making things worse as it was and actually trying to fix his mistake by creating the Elven Rings of Power!"

It was obvious, really, that Celebrimbor was an idol figure in his son's eyes. It was endearing. Now, if only he was already reborn and in Arda rather than Valinor.

"That's one reason."

"Not that I'm saying that you and my other uncles are wrong that way! But-but-"

Maglor's lips quirked into a genuine smile as he watched his son getting flustered. "It's fine. I know what you're trying to say – the twins and your godfather, had drilled that into my head for centuries now. But really, it depends on how you think of it, _yondo_. If you put your mind on it, you might find yourself surpassing me in mere centuries."

Ollivander stared at the information given to him (both purposely and what his son had blurted out about the Rings of Power). "Those will be great ingredients for a wand. Providing that the two of them are close enough to Mr. Makalaurion in the prospect of magic, they will be perfect for use for him only, as we are going to create his wand as a custom wand." He said rather weakly.

Maglor might not bring a sword with him, but he always brought a knife for just-in-case situations. He cut a small lock of his hair to Ollivander, and promised that he would go to Ollivander to deliver the harp the next day, and give the payment and take the wand himself the day after that. All while ignoring his son's complaint about using his harp as the wood of his wand.

"All I ask of you son, is to use the wand wisely." Maglor said to his son, once all of them left Diagon Alley. "I trust you won't be using it to pick your nose?" He teased.

"**_Atto_**!"

* * *

><p><em>Dagor Nirnaeth Arnoediad<em> = Battle of Tears Unnumbered

_Yondo_ = (Quenya) My son

_Atto_ = (Quenya) Dad

_Haru_ = (Quenya) Grandfather


	4. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** I do not own anything that was created by J. R. R. Tolkien (LotR & Silm) or J. K. Rowling (HP)

* * *

><p>The sun rose just like every other day in England, however, this day wasn't 'like every other day'. Today was the time when children will finally go to their schools to learn new things from their teachers, and perhaps, it would be decided as of how the children will survive in that school with education that was certainly different from home. And of course, it should be called as the children's 'Big Day' and it would be seen as the children maturing – a process where the children will grow up and someday leave their parent's home to build up their own family.<p>

One day in the next few years, that is.

But of course, some of the said children were attending a special school just for them; as they have different abilities than other children.

And it was magic.

And magic it was that would guide them to their starting point towards their destination until the end; their dreams or their future that was set to them since they were but a toddler.

Their starting point – just like their predecessors – was a train. A magical train that would bring them into one of the most prestigious and ancient magical school in Europe called Hogwarts. The entrance for this magical train station was a pillar between the platform number 9 and 10, as the platform was actually written off as number 9 ¾ - which was practically almost impossible platform to enter for muggles; non-magical humans. So it was clear that all of the people in the platform were magical – each one of them being identified as witches and wizards.

Among the magical crowd was two people; it was obvious that they were father and son, and that it was their first time within the train express. As it was, the son was looking around excitedly, though slightly subdued as he was trying to 'mind his manners' like his father asked of him, taking everything he had seen: a red haired boy with his family of red-heads, a stern blond man talking to his son… And the father looked somewhat tense as he looked distrustfully at the train, before heaving a small sigh.

His son was leaving for Hogwarts, along with other students as a First Year in that Sunday of First September 1991. It was a sad truth that he won't see his son's shy smiles, nor hear his bright laugh during their time of companionship or camping or playing Rangers or Healer – two games that his son particularly liked – for quite a while. He almost thought that he won't manage; but he knew that he will survive it. He had lived for quite a long time alone, as it was. There were many proofs of such, not to mention that all of the antiques that were sold in high-classed auctions were all but a new-born product in comparison to his age. He wasn't called the oldest First-born that still walked within the Arda – or Earth that was known by mortals for nothing, though almost no wizards or witches of this age knew of it – except for Flitwick and Ollivander.

He led his son towards the train, bringing his son's belongings with him. His ancient scarred hand was on his son's shoulder all the time, before they finally stopped a few feet from the entrance towards the train. He squatted down to his son, and observed his face.

His son was a lot like him, despite the fact that he was adopted. Well, _blood_ adopted, because of the circumstances during that time.

His son had a pair of wide, brilliant emerald eyes that rivaled the color of the forest and the emerald stones which many of his folks would have loved, had they met him. In them, reflected the nervousness he felt for the new school and new friends he would have in the future. His hair reached his back which was as dark as night itself – though it _was_ messy, thankfully it wasn't as messy as those years ago, but still was messier than _his own_ hair. Which was saying something. He was an eccentric musician in his own right, it's one good reason enough! His son had inherited his soft features thanks to the adoption, somewhat making him to look a bit feminine – as he once was, when he was slightly older than his son.

He wasn't malnourished like when the child was found by him, and his skin showed a healthy glow for his standards – albeit much paler than other people within the train station, but a good glow for his folks nonetheless. He had no more scars in his body, as he and his friend had worked on healing them all for the sake of the child – including the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead, was no more. He looked so different than the scrawny child he had adopted, and more like a smaller version of him with green eyes and a bit messier hair. Though in the other hand, he looked a bit like a porcelain doll.

And he was eleven, growing up in the almost same manner as mortals – which itself wasn't surprising, given the fact that he was born a mortal before his father gave him his blood. But still, he looked like he was about seven or eight in mortal years.

_Children grew up too fast_, he decided, _or at least children with mortal blood_, he thought of the twins he had raised and his younger brothers he had helped his parents to raise a long time ago and the differences between the two of them.

"_Atto_?" His son had asked, gaining his attention. His son's eyes were scanning his face, as if trying to engraving his face to his mind. "Promise you'll write?"

A gentle smile appeared on his face. "I will, _yondo_. And you promise me that you will stay out of troubles."

His son nodded, before giving him a fierce hug. Understandable, seeing that the boy had never been so far away from him, and this would be his first time.

The said boy felt his father chuckle; he felt the vibration as he hugged his father. "Make me proud." The boy looked at his father's proud face, before his father pushed him towards the train, giving him his belongings and a silver locket of his father's that bore their family symbol – a star of an origin that only select few mortals know of. "Be home at _Hristomerendë_."

And the train had finally departed.

The time of the Eldar to walk on the world had begun once more.

* * *

><p>Martur was lucky that he had gotten a whole compartment just for himself, he supposed. Some compartments of which he had almost entered was very prejudiced; one of them being a blond haired boy who called him a mudblood and hadn't allowed him to enter. Others were of either nosy or even loud compartments. Other ones were of the upperclassmen in Hogwarts, which Martur was shy and hesitant to introduce himself to. His size was small compared to other children of his age, and his hair was long enough that he might be mistaken as a girl (several times did that happen, he was so embarrassed and his twin uncles never lived it down) – he would be undoubtedly mocked as a baby doll.<p>

He opened one of the books he had brought from his family's library – history of Gondolin in Tengwar that his teacher had brought from Imladris. He always was intrigued with the rich history of the First Age and the Second Age, the high and low points of his _atto_'s big family as kings and great people known throughout the history of the First-born. So compassionate, the power behind it-! The beauty behind it couldn't be compared with any others, though sad the histories were; as such his father and his songs of the fall of his people and family.

So deep was he in his readings, yet he was aware of his surroundings, that there was a boy of his age (and bigger, considering his small size) awkwardly standing behind the door he just entered. Martur looked up as he began to speak. "Er, you don't mind me sitting here, don't you?" The boy-stranger asked.

"Oh sure, do go ahead." Martur nodded to him before closing his book for the sake of politeness and mannerisms that his father and his teacher drilled into him. He shifted his attention to the red-haired boy. "I'm Martur Makalaurion, how 'bout you?"

"I'm Ron Weasley."

And so it happened that Ron was trying to convert Martur into a sport the smaller boy had never seen before in his life (_brooms_? What use of a broom aside from cleaning? _Flying_ on a broom? Seriously? The last time he checked about flying wizards, was the account of how Gandalf the Grey escaped Isengard in the back of a certain Eagle that was otherwise known as Gwaihir…) and into the House of Gryffindor during their conversations. It was more of a Ron Weasley talking and Martur listening. Martur didn't appreciate how Ron was being a bigot as he spoke of House of Slytherin, but he chose not to show that. While he knew of magic, he never grew up along with magic like Ron did. So from the red-haired boy, he gained a few insights from someone whose siblings went into Hogwarts before him and someone who grew up with magic since he came from a magical family (why did the number of siblings he had seem so familiar?); he was an information mine.

Yes, he knew when or how to react to certain people similar to Ron because of watching his godfather being a great businessman who nodded and agreeing in the right times when interacting with new and foolish and proud CEOs and such, since he himself insisted on it while bringing him into one of the Greenwood Expos he had once in a while. Good thing too, even if the social lesson was boring.

At least in his _atto_'s social lesson (AKA singing in front of them) was much better; he got many good words in his dictionary thanks to poetry and songs, everyone paid attention to him, and he also got more confidence.

Ron's one-sided conversation (this time, it was about how great Quidditch was, not that Martur understands; imagining people playing sports with broom seemed ridiculous, so he supposed he would understand the sport once he saw it) was interrupted by a knock. The door now opened to reveal a girl with bushy hair and a shy-looking boy.

"You wouldn't happen to see a toad, did you?" She asked, in a bossy tone. It made Martur think of a certain lady he didn't like in the past, so he became wary of her immediately.

"No, I did not." Martur answered slowly, eying her carefully. He was taught that ignoring a question would be impolite, if the situation was similar to this. Except during one of his moods that was eerily similar to his _atto_ – that could be pardoned. "But since this is a train for many students of many years alike, perhaps you can ask one of the older students to summon it?" He suggested.

The girl looked at him blankly before slapping her forehead. "Oh, I'm so _stupid_!" She muttered to herself, making the small boy to look at her bewilderedly.

"Pardon?"

The girl spared him with only a glance and went out running towards the compartment of older students. Martur almost scowled. Wasn't that just rude? Then he noticed the boy she left behind.

"Hello there." He called the so very shy boy that looked lost and uncertain. "I'm Martur Makalaurion, what's your name?"

"I'm N-Nevile Longbottom." He said.

No offence to Ron, but he never liked to have one-sided conversation about things he did not understand, and so he talked and asked questions to the other boys in the compartment about their families and their life styles. He couldn't help but think; Ron's family of six siblings and both parents, really did remind him of his _atto_'s family, and how Neville really did became shy because of his family's terrible deeds to him. He told to them of how his family taught him in many things and helped them in some of their jobs like he always did every night before he came to Hogwarts to either play a lute or sing alongside his _atto_.

The bushy haired girl from earlier came with a smug look on her face and a toad named Trevor on her hand, then promptly introduced herself as Hermione Granger. She claimed she remembered everything from the textbooks by heart, one thing that Martur did not believe, as they were only given the books when they were given the letters, in a certain day, no more than one, two, three or four months ago. Except if they have a photographic memory. Yet he did not say anything other than his name to her while she spoke of everything and nothing.

With Neville and Ron occupied with her inane chatter, he picked up his previously closed elven history book and read. Magic wasn't new to him or the other two boys, yet the three others in his compartment seemed to be somewhat excited or nervous to be in a new magic school. New school, though, had made him anxious, and not in the aspect of magic. Eru knew that some of his and his _atto_'s songs could be used for simple chores like opening the doors or even viewing memories projected by songs and yet could be seen and dubbed as magic, or how many potions that was kept in the First Aid box that was brewed by his godfather, or those times when his teacher would randomly come and go using the fireplace.

His actions went unnoticed, as the other three kept on talking excitedly about magic like true children they were. That particular naïve innocence of his had disappeared since the time he had woken up in one of _atto_'s many scattered abodes near the shores. _Atto_ had despaired of it, yet it couldn't be helped.

Finally they arrived, all of them had changed into the uniform they were required to wear – a black robe. They were led by a half-giant called Hagrid, into the boats, telling them that a boat would have no more than four students on it. The road to the boats were dark thanks to the darkened sky, many students were stumbling to get the right footing so that they won't fall. Martur looked as if he was gliding rather than tumbling.

He went into a boat with the other three he met, and wait patiently as the boats rowed themselves towards the direction that was set for them with Hagrid leading them all in the boat in the most front of them. The lake under them had made his blood stir almost as if it had some longing towards the waters, like he always had whenever he was near the shores. Yet, the water was dark and not light as he always watched and portrayed the sea as – granted, it was a lake and not the sea.

A castle.

Hogwarts was a castle that was often portrayed in the medieval histories of Europe.

She has her own dark beauty, yet she had nothing against the ruins of Gondolin which he saw whenever his teacher brought him to the location of his former home. Hers was only unique since it was built by magic instead of like Gondolin's; made of seventy-odd years by pure hard work of Noldor in exile. And Hogwarts' age was much more younger than any places that could be counted as the place that held the memory of his family's as Imladris still did exist and so did the ruins of Gondolin and the main part of Greenwood the Great. Though miraculously, the fortress of which _atto_ and his brother had lived during the First Age, survived the War of Wrath and became ruins in a similar state of Gondolin.

He felt her magic prickling above his skin, welcoming the new students as her new charges, wishing her halls to be filled with children and happiness instead of looking similar to her outward appearance.

All in all, he wasn't impressed just yet.

Hagrid then brought them, just in front of the castle where he knocked the door with his giant hand. An old, stern-looking lady opened it, gesturing them to enter with her strict voice. They were then required to wait in a dark room. Students nervously chatted with one and another, of how the Sorting would go, and memorizing the spells within the textbooks that they did not brought. Ghosts appeared, making many students jump and Martur wondering of how a mortal _fëa_ could possibly stay in the world and visible not in the form of lost shades; did they not listen to the call of Mandos?

The door opened again, and they formed two lines to go inside. The decorations inside had immediately made Martur into thinking of the fortress in Himring for it's darkness and grandness. The skies above was decorated with floating candles and the night sky above, clearly showing the stars – though not as close to them as Martur would've like. There were four long tables filled with children of different ages, and one table right in front of the Great Hall that was filled with – he assumed – teachers. With his keen eyes, he saw professor Flitwick sitting and chattering with a plump lady.

And also of the stern lady earlier taking out a three-legged stool and an old, battered hat.

He wondered if the hat was either of any significance or this was for the Sorting.

* * *

><p>Flitwick was excited. Of course! Who wouldn't be? The children would show their potentials as they learned new things from Hogwarts with their magic that he and along with other teachers taught. Mysteries to be discovered, words waiting to be read, and him as a teacher to teach and learn! Oh, how exciting! Pomona too, seemed to be sharing the same enthusiasm as he; her eyes were alight like <em>lumos<em>, and her smile just as inviting as his.

And of course, he still has his eye on the small elven child whom he visited and brought to Diagon Alley with his father. He was truly, literally a child of history – seeing that his father, along with the twins he met (though he was not sure which part of the said history they were in, seeing that while goblins did managed to translate a few, they were scattered pieces, and he didn't know who's who or the specifics of those stories, so it was understandable) – were living pieces of history that was long forgotten by humans. And with that, the said child seemed to like to learn more about history, if his actions towards him when he noticed the paintings in his house indicated anything.

Shame that the History of Magic was taught by a _not_ motivational ghost. Hopefully he would still love history as it was.

Ah, now there was Minerva and the Sorting Hat! Songs were always sung by the old hat even before he became a student of Hogwarts, about the different Houses of Hogwarts and of the like. How he wished Martur to be of his own House, and that the Sorting Hat would let it; for how the boy seemed eager to learn!

Ravenclaw! A House of young geniuses – as similar as the boy when it came to music; the House that had high standards for lessons, and those lessons that would create great people in the future thanks to their knowledge. While Ravenclaws never won the House Cup for the past six, almost seven years – the title belonged to the Slytherins – it was of his House of which students had the highest score in their exams.

And lo! The Sorting had begun. He took note of every student that became a Ravenclaw.

There was Mandy Brocklehurst, Anthony Goldstein, and several others that became his student for the next seven years. And he waited anxiously until students with the alphabetical 'M' to be called.

There was Megan Jones to the Hufflepuff, Sue Li to the Ravenclaw, Morag MacDougal to the Ravenclaw, and finally Martur Makalaurion! Oh, how he wished to himself that the young boy would end here in his House! Thus way, children of his House would learn more about other races too; imagine, the diplomats of Hogwarts, being the bridge of Ministry and the non-human races so that their relationship wouldn't be as bad as today – even though that fact could be distributed to a certain Ministry of Magic of Britain, mostly.

With Martur as a star-people kind, his race would help other races to have their own standing in the Ministry rather than being labeled as Dark Creatures, if he played his cards right inside the curious House of Ravenclaw. It would be an enlightening future.

But now he could only wait anxiously, and hope that the boy to be Sorted to his House.

* * *

><p>Albus Dumbledore saddened as he knew that he wouldn't hear any 'Harry Potter' name in the list as Minerva called the names of the children one by one. His parents had long paid their son's Hogwarts fee, when he was still a baby. And the child wasn't here because he died. Instead, there was only the cousin of Harry's – Dudley, was it? – rather than Harry himself and Dudley. Poor Dudley must've been devastated to have his cousin to die in such an early age!<p>

Yet no one but him knew of their Boy-Who-Lived's death. They all assumed that young Harry was trained or given a special attention so that he wouldn't go to Hogwarts. Well. In the Wizarding World, there were many people liked to spread rumors or lies like Rita Skeeter, and there were much more people who liked to follow them blindly like the sheep they were. He might be once saved the world from Gellert Grindelwald, but as high as his power and fame were, he was powerless against rumors. He hoped that there were no nasty rumors for young Harry; there was no need to slander his name, as the boy was dead.

And now he had to guide Neville to be the Savior of the Wizarding World instead, as the shy boy was finally here. It was fortunate too – that Neville was in Gryffindor, just like his parents before him.

It was for the Greater Good.

Yet so deep was his grief and sadness, he didn't notice that there was a child with the same shade of green eyes as Lily within the Great Hall, in the same generation as Neville Longbottom, sitting in the table of Ravenclaw.

* * *

><p>'<em>Now, now, what do we have here?<em>' A voice he had heard inside his mind, much to his alarm. He had heard tales similar to his plight – the voice inside his mind, that was – during the Third Age with Lady Galadriel; his twin uncles' grandmother and cousin to his father. The stories of which one spoke into the minds of others and would know one's life story whilst speaking. Martur didn't like the sound of that at all.

'_Oh, no need to be scared, little Harry – or Martur is it, which you prefer to be called now?_' Yes – it felt so very much disturbing. And the smell was filthy, Eru! '_Try to sit on a place for almost the whole year to gather dusts, Mr. Makalaurion_,' the voice huffed, '_and then sit on countless students' heads!_'

Martur gaped in shock, though he shouldn't be, before he remembered what the Hat said. '_You won't speak of my name to anyone, will you?_' He thought worriedly.

The voice then chuckled. '_Of course not, Martur! Besides, no one would actually think of our resident Eldar-descent student will be Harry Potter, will there? Harry was a human, last time they checked!_' Martur had an eerie feeling that the Hat winked at him somehow. '_Now is the time to Sort you however, no time to talk about the Most Ancient Eldar I've seen in your head whom you call father or of the history of your family!_

'_What a complicated life you have, Martur! Ah, I do so wish that you won't be seeing your dreadful muggle uncle again, though it is sad that your cousin did came and Sorted with me earlier, as you have noticed. Layer and layer, everything is covered by many things; I wonder how you managed to organize your mind without knowing the Wizarding Way to do so. You have a brave heart, and a cunning mind – what's with you to be daring to do things with that teacher of yours and tricking your twin uncles; I have seen how mischievous twins can be, and this is just remarkable. Sad to say that they are not your primary trait, as I'm sure that even the Founder themselves would like to have you as their student. Of course you are not a Gryffindor! Don't worry about that. You are loyal to those who had proved themselves to you, though Hufflepuff isn't your place, as cute, kind and fitting you are to Helga's House. _

'_No – it was your thirst of knowledge, dear child! The Eldar who raised you is basically an immortal, male form of Rowena Ravenclaw herself! My, aren't you lucky? And of course; the music you have created and those songs you've sang! Raw Elven magic; directed freely for purposes that were necessary for the castors! Never before this kind of magic was seen in the Wizarding World, even before I was created – yet it was once told that this kind of magic existed. Yes, yes; your true place will be with the RAVENCLAW!_'

Ravenclaw! Didn't professor Flitwick have mentioned that he was the Head of the House of Ravenclaw?

The Hat was lifted, and he was able to see again. The Ravenclaws clapped politely while the other Houses were merely watching him. With a glance at the stern lady, he went into the table of his new House.

Ravenclaw – the House of Knowledge. He'd wager if his father was a student of Hogwarts, he'd be Sorted to the very House. Or Slytherin, at least. It was almost ironic that the symbol of the House was an eagle, and the name of a raven. Eagles were well known to be servants of Manwë, and ravens – or crows – used to be known as the servants of the Enemy of the Third Age called Sauron. Perhaps it was fitting, as those fore-mentioned birds continued to seek upon knowledge of their foes.

He looked around as he sat on his table, waiting the Sorting to come to an end. The only one who was as small as him was his Head of House, and the other new Ravenclaws looked older than him – even if they were of the same age as he. The Hufflepuffs looked at him almost curiously and thoughtfully, as if they recognized his last name but yet did not remember where the name came from. One of the older Hufflepuffs smiled at him though! The very action made Martur to smile his lopsided smile back to the older student of different House.

Well now, since Hogwarts would be the place where he'll be staying for his studies, he had already missing his family so – especially his _atto_. And his _atto_'s songs, he reflected once he heard the song of Hogwarts of which combined tunes were making him filled with headaches; after he ate venison and drank pumpkin juice that was provided on the table so suddenly thanks to magic with the company of the resident ghost of Ravenclaw, the Grey Lady. The name made him think of a White Lady in the history of Gondolin, thanks to the color-related name.

The House of Ravenclaw was inside one of the highest tower in Hogwarts, to his delight. It would aid him to see the stars better; especially Gil-Estel. Gil-Estel had always been his favorite star, and true to his name – a star of High Hope. He still remembered the way his twin uncles would told him that Gil-Estel was their grandsire sailing in the sea of stars with a Silmaril on his brow.

He sighed as he went to sleep; several moments after professor Flitwick welcomed them, the First Years as the new generation of Ravenclaws. Never before had he felt so lonely, as he always slept whenever one of his family was nearby, which was usually his _atto_ singing for him as he fell into the realms of Irmo.

* * *

><p>Maglor sighed tiredly. It had been less than a day that his son in spirit and blood – but not body – had departed from home, and to the Maia school – and he already missed him. Very much so. He almost regretted the fact that he let his son to choose which school he should attend for the next few years of his life, but he knew it was for the education for his son, though he very much wished he knew every material so that he could teach his son himself rather than being far away from home. He knew the others residing in the house also think of that. Yet he knew that his son would need it – being social with children of his age, rather than surrounded by old men; so that his son would have people he could call friends.<p>

So he had begun to distract himself from the painful fact that his son way away: translating the works of the Eldar that had left in Middle-Earth. He envied the twins of his former foster son Elrond, as they did not involve themselves fully to his son as he did. Though he wouldn't have it the other way. Yet he knew that it would be lonely without the very presence of his son in _Maglor's Gap_. People, especially the customers of _Maglor's Gap_ would be saddened and protest of the disappearance of their small heart throb of the inn too, even if they were warned of such several nights before September 1st.

Yet – in his effort of distracting himself from his son's whereabouts, he found himself relieving the past once more. The first kinslaying of Alqualondë, the arrival of Noldor to Middle Earth, and the death of his brothers, cousins, and family – all of them recorded inside the goblins' archives, unfortunately for him. It may have been a long while since all of that happened, and it seemed to him as if they were yesterday, so long were the memories of the Eldar. Never forgetting, and for him, no one would forgive his deeds.

Perhaps it was fortunate – or unfortunate – for him to receive the archives of the Eldar from the goblin.

It would allow him how much Arda had changed, in the hands of Edain after the Eldar had left Arda to the West. Telling him how the Edain had advanced from the Fourth Age and becoming lazy with their methods, as they had either their technology (normal Edain) or magic (Maia-Edain). Or perhaps the history written by scholars back in the Third Age about several events in the history that he wasn't aware of or amusingly made-up assumption of him and his brothers' characters and why they all went to Middle Earth for the Silmarils.

But it would also allow him to look back to the dark past that he had, and never properly to review and forgive himself for his past actions. Perhaps he would never forgive himself and give him some sort of peace aside from Martur until Arda was remade again, after all. Not to mention the texts also told of the consequences of his family's actions – and demise. It was rather saddening that how the fellowship fiasco happened because of his nephews undoing, though he probably didn't mean to do so. He knew Telperinquar when he was still a youngling in Valinor, and how he grew up; he knew his nephew deflected from his father's and uncles' oath, Telperinquar was once an honorable Eldar who believed in justice, though in the end he was tricked by one of Morgoth's lieutenant Sauron under the disguise of Annatar.

There were many pros and cons for this job, he now realized. It was a time of reflection, unknowingly given by the goblins with the guise of translating texts; for he was now not busy as the center of his attention went into a mortal-Maia boarding school.

Oh, how he missed his son already! Without his presence in their home, it almost felt as if _Maglor's Gap_ really did become _Maglor's Gap_ of First Age before Morgoth attacked it: cold and lonely; without laughter and only mournful songs filled its halls, sad enough that several of his men went into his older brother's stronghold or fade in guilt.

But of course; there were many times when he did his work, and time passes so quickly. Perhaps if he was to do the jobs that those goblins gave him, he might as well feel as if it was only a few days ago of which Martur left for Hogwarts.

He flexed his scarred hand – sometimes it was still difficult to move for the burn he still felt at times. Silmaril burns always never good for the person who had it, especially if the said person daily uses the limb that had the Silmaril burn, he thought to himself.

And he started to write of the translation of a texts mentioning of the Valar, trying to ignore a certain memory of a certain Vala who had cursed him and his brothers and people which he remembered as if it was yesterday.

_'Tears unnumbered ye shall shed; and the Valar will fence Valinor against you, and shut you out, so that not even the echo of your lamentation shall pass over the mountains. On the House of Fëanor the wrath of the Valar lieth from the West unto the uttermost East, and upon all that will follow them it shall be laid also. Their Oath shall drive them, and yet betray them, and ever snatch away the very treasures that they have sworn to pursue. To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well; and by treason of kin unto kin, and the fear of treason, shall this come to pass. The Dispossessed shall they be forever._

_'Ye have spilled the blood of your kindred unrighteously and have stained the land of Aman. For blood ye shall render blood, and beyond Aman ye shall dwell in Death's shadow. For though Eru appointed to you to die not in Eä, and no sickness may assail you, yet slain ye may be, and slain ye shall be: by weapon and by torment and by grief; and your houseless spirits shall come then to Mandos. There long shall ye abide and yearn for your bodies, and find little pity though all whom ye have slain should entreat for you. And those that endure in Middle-earth and come not to Mandos shall grow weary of the world as with a great burden, and shall wane, and become as shadows of regret before the younger race that cometh after.' _

Yes, he still remembered that fateful time, as clear as crystal. Yet it was strange that he did not become a shadow of regret like he had once thought or what Námo himself had foretold.

* * *

><p>Speaking of the Valar themselves, a certain Ruler of the Dead frowned in his throne, his solemn dark eyes looked distant towards the East. His wife had been worried to see him with a frown – he never frowned, except if it concerned the fate of the Eldar like the fall of Noldor – that she went to consult with the King of Valar himself, early this fair morning in Valinor.<p>

Imagine her surprise when Ulmo too, had also a small changes that made him similar to those times when he had sent Tuor to Gondolin with his message, and found him outside his realm, in the highest mountain in Valinor where Manwë dwells. The King of Valar himself had a distant look in his eyes that had indicated that he was talking to the One. It was either him or Námo had the ability to talk to Father, but Námo was never the one to tell anything about His plans, unlike Manwë.

But Manwë too, had a frown on his face.

It would be an omen for yet another bad tiding, but it was indeed the Will of Eru Ilúvatar.

It was then Manwë called forth every other Valar for a conference; one thing that never happened after the War of Wrath, which was thousands of years ago.

"Brother and sisters, the One had willed us to send only one of our representatives to go back to Middle Earth, just as what we did during the end of the First Age and the Second Age." He said, his voice was full of purpose. "Our charges are the Eldar, as such, a few of them still are at Middle Earth, living with the Atani yet not become one of them, such as the father of Legolas Thranduillion, a former member of the Fellowship, and Canafinwë Makalaurë, High Prince of Noldor in exile." He then became silent, mulling over several things.

"The darkness of Atani slowly corrupted the goodwill of the Free Peoples of Middle Earth, with fear and greed. Dark Lords had risen in forms not unlike Sauron, and fall in similar manner under the guides of the leader of Light; such was the way of mortals. Námo had received a most curious mortal _fëa_ a few years ago, mutilated not unlike elves under the hands of Melkor and very small and twisted compared to other _fëa_; it would seem that he had almost received a _fëa_ of a mortal child, descendant to the House of Elessar of Edain, but his life was saved by the hands and blood of Makalaurë himself, with Ulmo as the witness of this event.

"Námo had talked to Father for the fate of the young one, yet He told him to let the young one choose between mortality of the Atani or immortality of the Eldar, just as the fate of Peredhel. Yet that is not what I am to talk about, it is what the child bore in his shoulders. A prophecy was made of the child, similar to one made for the King in the Fellowship." He then paused.

"Destiny of Arda now rests in the hands of a Peredhel of the House of Fëanáro." He said. "Through him, either Darkness will triumph, or held back until the End of Days. Through him too, will be the redemption for the sins created by his father who isn't his sire. He has the people of the First through the Third Age to guide him, yet it was not of magic – though skills he had acquired from Makalaurë isn't one to be underestimated either. He shall need a Maia to guide his magic and help him to achieve his destiny, rather than letting Arda to die only because of the Dark Lord." He became silent again, though this time he didn't say anything more to add the statements he had given to the other Valar and Valier.

It was Ulmo who spoke, with a bittersweet smile on his face. "A Maia perhaps isn't enough, Manwë. Forces of the Eldar in Middle Earth are small, though they are resting in the high seats of the Second-born." He said. "With Harry Potter becoming Martur Makalaurion, an Edain into Peredhel, this… _war_ against the Dark Lord will be also against the Elven forces instead mortal wars only. While his father had committed uncounted sins against his own kin, I daresay no children shall be upheld for their parent's actions, though horrible they are."

"And thy art correct, Ulmo." Námo had spoken. "Especially if the child bear scars given by his own kin."

Eyes turned to the Doomsman of Valar. "What do you mean, brother?" Nienna asked, almost fearfully. "Surely you jest of the child bearing scars by his own kin?"

"Nay, 'tis the truth, what Námo said." Ulmo responded for the silent Vala, his face was grim. "The child was pushed into the cliff by his own cousin that I myself had to put my hands on this matter so that the child won't die before his purpose is fulfilled. The waters had tasted his skin, and they shall remember what deeds his own family did to a child's body. Edain had slowly becoming blind with their own arrogance, that they punish and detests other things that are different from them.

"Martur is… _special_, you can say. His kind is detested by his own family, as he is a mortal Maia; an Edain with powers not unlike Maia, though less in power and more in purposes." Ulmo said. "Though I believe such explanation is unnecessary for those who called themselves Istari, as all of you know of the fates of Morinehtar and Rómestámo." He added dryly.

"My stars had watched over them and their descendants," Varda, wife of Manwë murmured. "And I'm saddened to know how the Edain had fallen from grace. Those with the power of their ancestors put the fate of Edain unto the shoulders of a child that can be considered but a babe to our eyes, who had been robbed of his childhood though his light had miraculously unscathed and untainted. Makalaurë had done terrible and great deeds, one of kinslaying and the other of raising future king of Edain and bearer of one of the three Elven Ring. His tenderness had cost him many things, yet it also gave him everything."

"Never before a truer statement had been spoken, Varda." Vairë said, smiling. "Yet his and Martur's story will continue for a long time, had they defeated this new Evil in a few years. Trials for him and the rest of the Eldar will be harsh, however. We need to choose carefully of whom we shall send to Arda and help them in this quest, lest Arda and her inhabitants be destroyed as Melkor once wanted her to be." She warned.

Irmo was disgruntled. "Can't you choose who to go to Arda in the first place rather than talking in circles that you all know some of us hate so much?" He asked impatiently. While he was a Fëanturi much like his brother Námo, he was never one to talk similarly to the other Vala, making him perhaps one of the 'youngest' Valar around. It was ironic that he was a Vala of dreams, whereas dreams always take form in circles. "Why not Olorín, or perhaps Eonwë along with several of the First-Born?"

"Peace, Irmo." Aulë said, his fair face was thoughtful. "Of Olorín, he had finished a great job in Arda as a member of the Fellowship, yet it isn't the time for him. The same can be said to Eonwë; he _is_ a herald, however the war of the Edain isn't of destruction similar to the First Age, nor the war that was foretold we'll have during the End of Days – this war is the war of secrets, where it lies in a hidden community in Edain and only a few of the Second-Born may understand. I might send one of my Maiar, yet I fear for them, as it was one of mine who had wrought evil to Arda even after Melkor while the other turned against his duties."

"Why not send one of Oromë's?" Yavanna, wife to Aulë asked, her voice was full of curiosity. "It was two of his of which descendants had filled Arda in the form of mortals (1)."

Aulë snorted. "Are you suggesting for him to pick up after his servants' mess, dear wife?"

Yavanna gave her husband a _Look_ he knew so well ever since he spoke of his children having fire woods coming from her trees. She had been perfecting it. Several of the Valar noted with amusement at how Aulë seemed mightily uncomfortable at that look, though he was often subjected to it.

"No, I don't think that's the case, even if you suggested it, Aulë." Estë said, amusement was evident in her voice. "Soon will be the time when the Eldar go back to Valinor, and perhaps this is a fitting situation, to send one of Oromë's as a symbolization that they have to go home through the sea. Was it not him who had discovered the Eldar aside from Melkor? Was it not one of his that had became the vessel of the moon? Was it not one of his hounds had aided Beren and Lútthien when it was a time of her need and abandoned Tyelkormo as he never did anything true ever since he had arrived in Arda?"

Oromë hummed.

"So?" Irmo asked, "who will you send?"

No one noticed a ghost of a smile in Námo's face, with reasons unknown.

Oromë looked thoughtful. "Well then; the one I shall send will be…"

* * *

><p>Artanis – or now known as Galadriel, not that her family and siblings had ever called her that now that they were reborn in Valinor – frowned. Her face was full of concerned as she stood, looking at her mirror. Her husband took notice of it.<p>

"What troubles you, my love?" Celeborn asked, his grey eyes scanning her face as if he would found answers just from it.

Artanis chose not answer, wondering what she would tell her husband, when it concerned their grandchildren and her only surviving cousin in Arda who once slayed his own kin for the sake of an oath that was sworn in vain along with his six brothers. Her cousin with his adopted son who was once a mortal child. A mortal child with a grave future thanks to the prophecy he was subjected to. The future of Arda she once ruled a portion of did not seem good, had the child fail in his quest.

One of the possibilities of the future she had seen was the exact future of which _if_ Sauron won the War during the Third Age thousands of years ago.

* * *

><p><em>Hristomerendë <em>= (Quenya) Christmas

_Atto_ = (Quenya) Dad

_Yondo_ = (Quenya) My son

Morinehtar = Alatar

Rómestámo = Pallando

(1) = It was told in the Unfinished Tales that the Blue Wizards (Alatar and Pallando) were the Maiar of Oromë


	5. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: **I do not own anything that was created by J. R. R. Tolkien (LotR & Silm) or J. K. Rowling (HP)

* * *

><p>Martur poked at his breakfast. It did look and smell appetizing, but he really didn't feel to eat. There was a factor of which he woke up late during midnight thanks to his nightmares, and woke up early in the morning without any hopes for him to sleep. So he traced the way to the Great Hall that he and other Ravenclaws used the night before and he saw that there were only the teachers and only few students in the Great Hall. There was also another factor that he was missing the presences of the few adults that he completely trusted. In actuality, he knew no one in Hogwarts aside from professor Flitwick, and even then, he wasn't sure if he was to trust the small professor. He vaguely aware that he hummed a note that his father always used recently, last he saw him, that was, as he played with his food.<p>

"Nice voice you have." A voice started him out of his small daydream that his humming stopped abruptly. It was an older female Ravenclaw. He realized that he didn't know her name.

"Thank you." Martur said softly, only now noticing his food had become cold and not even half of it was eaten. His bright green eyes then focused the older girl. She was smiling, as though in triumph. "What can I do for you?"

"Oh, nothing." She said. "I suppose I only want to know who the resident songbird of Ravenclaw is."

Martur blushed at the praise. While he often sang in front of people, he always directed the praises those people gave him to his father. "_Att-_ my father taught me." He said, covering slip in Quenya by using a word that people would understand. No one would understand him if he kept on saying _atto_ instead of father, but it was difficult to do so since he spoke using that language every day with his _atto _and his teacher.

If she had noticed his slip, she mentioned none of it. "I'm Penelope Clearwater, 4th Year. Nice to meet you, little one." She introduced herself.

"Martur Makalaurion." Martur muttered, looking everywhere but her face, his pale skin slowly gained more colors. He was just that shy, without knowing anyone in his House and little interaction experience of children his age or older.

"Ah, you're one of the duo musicians in _Maglor's Gap_?" She asked.

Martur blinked slowly, then he scanned at her face trying to remember if he had seen her face in one of his many performances in his home. "Yes I am, how do you know?" He asked slowly.

"My mother often tells me of a marvelous little singer there, whenever she went to her Saturday hang-outs with her friends." Penelope beamed. "It's quite difficult to remember a _Lord of the Ring_-ish name like yours, but it's rather distinctive. Imagine my surprise when you're also magical!" She exclaimed. "Mother will never believe this, I suppose. Perhaps you should sing to me sometimes so that I can see how your voice charmed my mother?"

Martur blushed even more. "It's always my father who sings, I'm the one who always uses instruments. 'Twas probably my father's voice that had charmed her rather than mine."

"Nonsense!" Penelope said. "I heard your voice a few minutes ago, and your voice is so sweet. Mother's descriptions of you never will do the justice." She then smiled mischievously. "Maybe then, I'll help you in some of your lessons and give you some advices so that you won't lose your way inside this gigantic castle."

Forest green eyes met sea blue, he asked, "Truly?"

"Truly."

He couldn't believe his luck. He just made a friend. Suddenly Ravenclaw didn't seem as intimidating, with someone to guide him in the foreign school of magic. Even if that someone wasn't of his year.

* * *

><p>A figure watched over Hogwarts from her very own Forbidden Forest.<p>

Contrary to many beliefs, not all of the Elves had left Middle-Earth, especially those who were born there – similar to Thranduil. In fact, Melwen never really heard the so-called song of the seas that had the Noldor, and many people of Elrond and Galadriel to leave towards the sea; she never understood of it even if she had asked Lord Maglor to tell her from time to time what it's like. He was the only one out of all of the Elves of First Age remaining in Middle-Earth to listen to the voice of sea, yet he did not sail. She wouldn't know of Elrond's twin sons, but she knew that Lord Maglor did, as he often gazed to the sea before he had gotten himself a son when she and her companions visited him.

Now it had been years since she last saw him and his son, preferring to be in her home of Eryn Lasgalen, once known as Greenwood the Great – then Mirkwood, and finally the Forbidden Forest, even if the Forbidden Forest was just a small part of her formerly kingdom. Not to mention that with mortals populating the world with great speed, it felt much more safer in her haven rather than dwelling with the mortals such as her King in his politics, Lord Maglor with his songs, or the twin sons of Lord Elrond who would either accompany their grandfather that wasn't in blood or in Imladris; of which borders had diminished greatly such as Eryn Lasgalen.

Elves who had decided not to dwell among mortals chose to be watchers of the Ages of Mortals, such as her. Yet she was also always fascinated with mortals, with their ways differ and ever so quickly advancing. To think that a few decades ago they managed to create flying metal ships that would soar like ships would to water – and land on the Moon too! Lord Maglor had often told stories to many people, even if he wasn't aware of what he was doing at times. Such great and perhaps random, his skill on escaping reality by his songs. Tilion, a Maia of the Vala Oromë, it was told, was chosen amongst other Maiar to steer Isil – the Moon, of which was actually a vessel created by Vala Aulë to hold the radiance of the last flower of Telperion, the silver tree. Perhaps they might go to Gil-Estel; one thing they call as the planet Venus – and speak of an ancient half-elven Eärendil, who was steering his ship that they have come to know as Venus.

And of course, of the magic of mortals.

During the Ages of which Sauron had been biding his time to lash upon the Free Peoples of Middle-Earth, mortals had acquired many knowledge upon magic from the Elves and Istari themselves. Now they had advanced, though Melwen wondered why a community of them who lived and learned – or living and learning currently – had become stagnant. They still wore robes, structures of their buildings had not changed since the ancient days. Nothing had really changed, and their numbers were gradually getting little and little as the passage of time flowed thanks to their inter-marriage, and their minds getting more and more narrow; banning spells that were harmless, only harmful if the spells were used by people with dark purposes and discriminating creatures that weren't human. Melwen must admit that she was disgusted by that custom of theirs. It seemed as if it was a very, very long time that Man once lived side-by-side along with the Dwarves, Elves, and Hobbits.

Hogwarts, the school of mortal Istari was also too stagnant, for Melwen's point of view. And that was saying something, seeing that Elves themselves were far more stagnant than mortals. Melwen was always in the opinion of mortal's fëa burn as brightly as Fëanor's – father of Lord Maglor – fëa (or it was told), though short their lives were.

Now the school harbored the son of Lord Maglor – little one she hadn't seen ever since his healing-induced sleep when he was just found by Lord Maglor. Young Martur probably hadn't known anything about her, his self-appointed silent protector.

Well.

She had always been fond of children, mortal or no. She remembered how Princeling Legolas had been in her care at times, when her Queen and King were unavailable to their son and heir. Little Estel too, when she was merely visiting her sister in Imladris, before she went to the West. Young Martur had been no different, though she wasn't really fond of spoiled and conceited children of mortals that called themselves as 'purebloods'. Even Legolas hadn't been like that. And he was a _prince_. He acted like every Sindar Elfling she knew of; proven by repeatedly falling from trees he liked to climb.

Once she had heard from her King, she had appointed herself to watch over her King's godson, in his stead. Perhaps soon she should notify the youngling that he wasn't alone in the big mass of mortals. One might find it disconcerting to be shipped off to a foreign place without anything familiar.

"Any news?" One of her companions, Beriadan had asked impatiently.

"The numbers of the spiders are growing again, and the centaurs and unicorns are in unrest." Melwen murmured, as she watched children walking to and fro from the windows of the castle in a great distance. "The mortal Istari children had no knowledge upon the darkness that walked among them while it seemed to me that some of the adults knew of it."

Beriadan scoffed. "Let the mortals on their own. We had our problems to deal with."

"Is it because of son of Maglor going to Hogwarts, Beriadan, that you become this bitter to Hogwarts?" Melwen questioned him. Beriadan was ere young; he was born during the Fifth Age, yet just as any elflings in Arda had hung upon their histories after the Third Age (those who were born after the Third Age had always complained that they had missed great battles and such, that they would rather read histories about the past and play as one of the people that were mentioned in said history), Beriadan had come to detest mortals as he watched how much devastation upon the land that the Edain had brought. Lord Maglor had also been a victim, though in thought rather than physically. He was immediately detested upon once Beriadan had learned of how much destruction that he and his brothers brought to Arda because of an oath that happened thousands of years ago, before neither Sun nor Moon had risen. Kinslayer to his own kin. To an extent, the hatred also reached out to his son as well, just because the child bore the blood of a sinner in his veins.

Speaking about Lord Maglor, it never ceased to amaze her how his legend and history were popular in the few elven domains nowadays, now that Lord Maglor had finally found a place to settle and raise his son. From what she known from the messages her King had sent her and brief meeting with Lord Maglor himself, Lord Maglor had been apparently, turning into an urban legend of healer that was traveling near the coasts of many countries and he gave his blood in order to save a dying mortal, which was Martur.

A flash of disdain crossed over his fair face. It was the only answer she needed. "'Tis fine to just tell King Thranduil of how you hate anything related with Maglor." She murmured, "no one is forcing you to do anything."

"Nay, it is why I must watch over that _spawn of kinslayer_ and those _mortals_!" He snarled.

"You are still young, Beriadan." She sighed. "Martur is not his father, and our kin had given Arda to their care completely, had they not? Oaths had been forbidden in our realms with the example of the oath of Maglor had driven him and his brothers to murder our kin. Though I am saddened at how low mortals had become; nothing more than tyrants rather than noble kings like they were used to be. Caring to nature – those kings, rather than destroying many things they have come across like Edain nowadays.

"Yet there still exists, mortals with golden hearts, though rare they were." She gazed towards Hogwarts with a distant look on her eyes as Beriadan watched her sullenly. "There is still hope for mankind."

"Do you not remember of those self-proclaimed Dark Lords, Melwen? What can you say for them?"

She heaved a heavy sigh. "Then may Eru have mercy on their fëar, and the Valar not cast them to the Void, for it is they who will judge, and not us who were susceptible to death and our fear created as children, unlike them; the Creator and His world's guardians."

She then watched the school, as Beriadan walked away. Something was happening _inside_ the school, as the trees that were near the school were protesting. Perhaps she would use her long-unused skill of stalking, that she might be able to know what's going on instead of watching from afar. It never sits well with her at how there were deaths inside a school because of creatures that were hidden inside a school. And perhaps, kill those creatures like she did to the spiders in the forest.

* * *

><p>Transfiguration was his – and his fellow Ravenclaw's – first lesson, along with the Gryffindors, taught by the Gryffindor's Head of House.<p>

As he arrived to the class, he wondered why there was no professor around and why there was a black cat sitting on the desk. Perhaps it was the teacher's familiar? He shrugged and brought his book bag to the front of the classroom, where he just might found more details from the teacher if she were doing something, so that he might do his transfiguration better than it's supposed to. It wasn't really the time for the lesson to start yet; he was perhaps the earliest to come for his insight of asking Penelope where the Transfiguration class was held. He figured that he would have some reading while waiting, so he took out a book of poems that his father wrote just for him and try to understand the riddles behind it.

Minutes pass, and many of the Ravenclaws and Gryffindors shuffled in. But Martur did not see Ron, the boy he briefly talked during his journey to Hogwarts. Just before the lesson (supposed to) started, he had appeared with two other Gryffindors in tow, panting and cursing. Martur only looked up from his book and leaved his book, turning his full attention to the front of the class. It was a school of mortal Maia, so the teacher might appear anytime – and perhaps with smoke around her?

She did appear, and she was the cat sitting on the desk. Who knew they can turn into animals too? She almost took points from Ron, Mr. Finnegan, and Mr. Thomas – Ron's new friends – had it not because they were also new students that it was understandable for them to lose their way in their first days in the massive castle called school. She certainly looked disapproving, what's with that stern glare and disapproving frown in her thin lips towards three of her Lions.

The lesson started with them trying to turn a matchstick to a needle. Not an easy feat to be sure; while magic came to him easier in voice – he was sure he had heard the incarnation right; his _atto_ had taught him many things, including how to hear things right – it was the motion of the wand that seemed to be more important than the voice. Perhaps he was too careful to flick his own wand that his matchstick was silver and not pointy like a needle in his fifth try, and be an actual needle during his eighth. He was hardly one of the first students to be given points, so the professor told him to try to change it back to a matchstick.

It was History of Magic next, and he wondered what kind of teacher that would teach him. He loved history of his family dearly enough, although it was full of tragedy: the life his _atto_ had lead long before mortals had created technology and Hogwarts was even founded. Though if it was history in mortals' point of view, many histories were forgotten, and of mortals in early Greece had dubbed his family as part of the gods of Olympus. Histories were just unique that way.

As he arrived, he had noticed that the teacher was nothing more than a _fëa_ of a mortal, similar to the ghosts of each Houses. Mr. Binns, he had introduced himself as, with a monotone voice. Then the ghost successfully achieved the impossible by lulling him to sleep because of the monotonous voice and somehow making the supposedly-exciting history into an extremely boring one. Martur, one who loved to pursue history, was upset and resolved to try to be awake next time in this class.

The next day, it had been Charms that was taught by Professor Flitwick, his Head of House. He taught them how to levitate a feather as an exercise of magic. Charms, he discovered, required more focus whereas Transfiguration required more visualization. Words were often acted somewhat similar to a password, as did wand motions that the object he was supposed to charm would move if he spoke the right pronunciation (which he got hang of rather quickly; his _atto_ taught him to sing in various languages – though he didn't understand the meanings yet – and the language he used for the spells in Hogwarts were Latin; and he _always_ sing in Latin, in other occasions that singing in his house as musician duo with his _atto_!) and wand motion. Professor Flitwick had made it to be a valid point in his class. 'Swish and Flick!' he often said in that one lesson period.

There were also many kinds of lessons; Herbology that was taught by Professor Sprout (still theories about plants rather than planting them like he always did with his godfather when he was in the vicinity), Astrology by Professor Sinistra (he must say he might stay up there and watch the star until the light of the Sun appeared and cover them with Her light), Potions by Professor Snape (the smell was rather complex inside the class, but the teacher was very much strict, not the same as the Gryffindors had described to their First Years – but maybe it was from another perspective), Defense Against Dark Arts or known as DADA by Professor Quirrel (but he fainted straight away because of the sharp smell of garlic that attacked his senses as he stepped into the class; the elven blood in him had amplified his senses greatly, so he had one of his classmates to teach him – though it was futile since Anthony Goldstein and other Ravenclaws had said that the teacher was useless).

DADA was the class that had introduced him to the Infirmary of Hogwarts to the first time, and he immediately hated the too-sterile scent of the place; he was very much used to walk on muddy earth with naked feet, dance under the rain, and such dirty things that he was sure other boys that were small as him would do.

… He found that he dearly missed the familiar presences of his father or uncles.

* * *

><p>They looked on towards the Ravenclaw table. Something about the smallest student made them think of someone… Maybe later they'll send a mail to their eldest brother via Hogwarts owl.<p>

But before that, they had to made sure what they were seeing was actually real. And try not to put him into their pranks for a moment.

For there was a small version of Makalaurë sitting right in front of their faces, complete with the mannerism of Makalaurë's that they had often heard from their oldest brothers when they reminisced of when they were young, of which picture they had seen once a long time ago in their parents' room.

* * *

><p>Hogwarts was rubbish. Just like his mom told him about his drunk of an aunt had went to. No wonder her aunt became a drunkard like her good-for-nothing husband and useless son! (Though to be honest, he often heard of such words from his father and he didn't really understand what those big words mean. But he did know that they meant bad.)<p>

The professors were stupid, just like the teachers of his old school. They didn't teach anything; since he knew everything! It was probably the reason why the wiz-thing society had become so technology-less! How could they live without TV and such things anyways? If he was to throw a tantrum for TV, it would make him look stupid 'coz smart people don't do tantrum: they demand. But the last time he demanded for a game boy, that cat-professor of his House – whatever it means anyways – had given him detention with that- that- that lowly servant by scrubbing a toothbrush to the walls like that punishment his parents gave to the freak! How dare they do such a thing to him! The one who had actually protected them from that one freak child during that one night long time ago! He was better than all of them; they should see. How he was more powerful than them (though compared to Crabbe and Goyle, his scores were worse in the first weeks of Hogwarts since not only he didn't do his job and assignment, he didn't know when to shut his mouth).

Hmm. Maybe it'll be better for him to help this stupid wiz-thing world one more time like he did last time with his freak of a cousin! That ought to teach the inhabitants of this stupid school about life once you get away from it. So now he only needed to find a perfect student, forgetting the fact that he was a student too.

Student… Student… Oh, he knew! How genius was he! He remembered a small child with a long name into the Ravenclaws. The smallest one would be the best student material, from what he remembered from his freak of a cousin. That freak of a cousin of his (he forgot the name. Is it Hardy? Homer? Whatever) must be living a great life because of his life lessons to him, so now it shall be the smallest student of this rubbish school. The smallest teacher wouldn't do, 'coz he was too old to learn new tricks – like a dog. He often learned from Aunt Marge that old dogs couldn't learn new tricks.

His eyes searched over the table of the Ravenclaws while he was eating, unaware that most students get away from him because of his manners of eating – rivaled only by a Ron Weasley; one of his new lackeys – and found his target. There! That girl with Slytherin-colored eyes and messy long hair who was receiving something that was covered with some blue cloth lined with silver in the fashion of leaves from crows right now. Made him think of that stupid Germione, but at least that girl looked like she liked to be taught and didn't show-off like Germione – teacher's pet she was – during the lessons Gryffindors had with the Ravenclaws. And of course; the girl was the smallest kid among all kids in Hogwarts added as a bonus.

Oh, she wouldn't know how lucky she was to have such a generous teacher like him who would teach her about life!

It was later on the evening that he caught her cradling something like a baby, walking towards some place that he didn't really care where. Wasn't he lucky to encounter her alone? Now's his chance!

"Now, now, what do I have here?" He asked, his grin widening at the sight of her freezing in her place. "A girl walking all alone, inside a scary and dark school with no one to accompany her to her destination? Now that could be fixed." And when he got close to her, he pushed her strong enough to make her fall. The thing she cradled fell, and the sound it made was as though it was damaged.

"No!" She cried, seemingly to be pained as the item parted from her grasp.

He never noticed how the 'girl' mover 'her' lips as though in prayer, and ran after 'her' as 'she' ran – and took the fallen item of 'hers'; how soundless 'her' footsteps were. Luckily for 'her', 'her' movements were swift thanks to the elven blood running in 'her' veins and the few training that 'her' teacher had given 'her'.

* * *

><p>It was the hour for him to do the patrol. Up until this hour, he still wondered to himself if the Headmaster was actually delusional himself that he brought that Thing inside a school with many inhabitants, most of which were students.<p>

Perhaps it was lucky that he had actually finished working on those dunderheads' abysmal essays. Not only were they difficult to read, but most of them were filled with rubbish, especially the new Gryffindors like that Weasley, Dursley, and Longbottom. Not to mention that every Friday he must endure their foolishness in brewing potions! By Merlin, he wondered – and angered – at how Longbottom managed to melt his cauldron or how Dursley was an absolute dunderhead by making his potion to almost have poisonous fumes that would undoubtedly kill the whole class. Somehow.

Dursley. What an unpleasant name. How he loath the name after the Headmaster had told him that Harry Potter was in the care of the Dursleys through his mother's side. So Petunia had married that walrus she often brought home – before Lily and him had severed their bond of friendship through his idiotic action by calling her a 'mudblood'? Well, good for her, the unpleasant giraffe and the obnoxious walrus fit for each other. Probably Potter was in their care, but he wondered for some brief moments as of why the Headmaster didn't seem to worry about Potter's whereabouts when he didn't appear here to torment him with his spoiled presence?

He was never close to any of his Slytherins – aside from Draco: his godson and his source of rumors going around in Hogwarts from the students' point of views – but he took pride of them; that they were as cunning and sly as he wanted them to be. Except for Crabbe and Goyle. Merlin knew that they were products of too much intermarriage in their families that he was sure that they would be even more dunderheads than their sires. He didn't really mind the Ravenclaws or Hufflepuffs; smarts and hard works were much better than Gryffindor's recklessness that would get them killed. And they wondered why Slytherins lived longer than Gryffindors…

Ah, now here's the sound of someone running in the fourth floor. Probably a student – and better yet, it was probably a Gryffindor. Gryffindors always did what they liked to do.

As he stood tall like a statue, he watched as two children ran from the corner, one he wasn't able to discern their expression due to their long hair, the other was – oh, _of course_ it was Dursley! As if being a dunderhead wasn't enough, it seemed to him that he was most likely bullying the kid in front of him. And he caught the dunderhead several times already; bullying brats of every House.

"What are you dunderheads doing?" His voice snapped like a whip, and the children froze. From a closer inspection on the long-haired child, it was Mr. Makalaurion. From the sounds of it, he was sobbing. From the looks of it, yes, he was crying. Perhaps in terror, not that he can blame the brat. Every small kid would probably be afraid of bullies. One of his own Snake had cried in terror after she came from similar bullying by Dursley.

Good Ravenclaw the small boy was, had talent in potions, though almost similar to a porcelain doll that had Draco looking at him interestedly before he realized that Mr. Makalaurion was a boy and not a girl. Long locks on a boy probably tended to make people think that they were girls, if they weren't perspective enough. Filius often boasted about the jewel-eyed and honey-voiced boy (the goblin descent's words) he had in his House, when it came to the teachers to discuss on their students' behaviors and grades.

But now the said Ravenclaw was blabbering in unrecognizable language. He duly noted that he should ask Filius about that later. Since that was the case, he directed his glare to Dursley. His voice was now soft, unlike earlier. "I ask again; what are you doing?"

Dursley was obese. Stupid as he looked – which was no wonder; knowing his parents were a human-like giraffe and human-like walrus. They probably didn't know anything about parenting, that Dursley was even fatter than Crabbe and Goyle. And _that_ was saying something.

"Oh nothing sir – I was just teaching her a lesson." He raised an eyebrow. By now he was sure everyone in Hogwarts knew Mr. Makalaurion was, in fact a male, despite his long hair that was enough to make him look like a girl. He was sure that all of his colleagues had made it clear by calling the long-haired boy, Mr. Makalaurion instead of Ms. Makalaurion. What a dunderhead.

"Teaching Mr. Makalurion what lesson, Mr. Dursley, if his tears indicate anything?" He asked silkily. He would know if what he saw was bullying at once. "Ten points from Gryffindor for pushing fellow student and running in the halls." He decided not to mention anything about Mr. Makalaurion also running in the halls.

"But-!"

"Make that twenty points for talking back at your teacher, and a detention with me starting tomorrow night at seven sharp."

"Hmph!" And so the dunderhead went, after eyeing Mr. Makalaurion dangerously – almost as if he was the one at fault. Mr. Makalaurion was too distraught to take notice.

He looked over to the small boy. "And what seems to be your problem, Mr. Makalaurion, to be crying like a girl that you look like?" He asked with a sneer.

Mr. Makalurion jerked as if he was surprised to be called, though tears were still running on his face. "P-professor Snape," he sniffled, "Dudley- (he noted that Mr. Makalaurion seemed to know Dursley well enough to use his first name and not his last name, and curiously, Dursley didn't know that he was a boy) _atto_ gave me- _Haru_'s harp- damaged-" The brat was speaking incoherently. A moment of listening, and he finally understood the message. This person called Atto sent him a harp called Haru's harp – that might or might not be a special item of the family – and the harp became damaged thanks to Dursley's interference when he was going to Filius' office to ask for protection spells on his harp. Typical.

He pursed his lips as he brought the boy to Filius' office, after he casted a _reparo_ at the harp – which had made Mr. Makalaurion to thank him quite a lot of times. So in this generation, it seemed to him that the Gryffindors were acting up again, but this time Mr. Makalaurion was the target. But he couldn't be so sure since this was probably the first time Gryffindors assaulted a Ravenclaw in this year instead of Slytherins like they always did. However, Mr. Makalaurion was perhaps the smallest and youngest-looking student in Hogwarts of this generation, and thus making him an easy target. If only the brat was a Slytherin, he might be able to protect him, but the boy wasn't a Slytherin; he was a Ravenclaw. Filius, he remembered, was rather close to his Ravens that he probably wouldn't let him to suffer thanks to the Gryffindors like he did when he was a student. The small professor had always been perspective, though he wasn't able to help him back then; if he was to help him who wasn't his Raven, especially Slytherins, since Slytherins were thought to be evil and dark because of the recent Dark Lord, there might be unfairness among the teachers that they would demand for him to resign or quit his teaching position, which wouldn't do at all. He understood it now, since he was a teacher and understood the position better.

Well, if Mr. Makalaurion was targeted by Gryffindors again, he might as well use the excuse that Gryffindors were delusional, reckless children who saw themselves as heroes, and children of other Houses as villains. That was what they always did.

In all honesty, he didn't know why he had this impulse of defending the small Ravenclaw. Perhaps it was something from his strangely familiar green-colored eyes or his small stature…

Something told him that there was more than it meets to the eye within Mr. Makalaurion. For one, both harp and the cloth covering it felt almost as if there was magic inside it? Perhaps his distant ancestor was a powerful wizard and the two were family heirloom? Why did he bring them here in the first place?

The small Ravenclaw was perhaps a mystery, but it was not his to solve, as he was Filius' and not his'.

* * *

><p>A knock resounded in his office, startling him from his composition – er, work – for his wizarding music lessons. It was fortunate that he had finished grading the essays of the children.<p>

"Come in!" He called. Imagine his surprise when he saw Severus enter. Severus, though young he was, never went so freely to other teacher's office except when it was necessary, very much unlike him and Pomona. "Severus! What brings you-," he trailed off when he saw Martur also walked in. "Martur?" He raised his eyebrow. Severus and Martur? Whatever brought the unlikely teacher-student pair here out of all places?

"Hi professor." Martur greeted with a small voice and a hiccup, cradling a harp like a mother does to their babies. He looked like he was crying…?

Filius looked at Severus bewilderedly. "What happened?" He demanded.

"The Gryffindors, Filius. You know them." Severus vaguely replied, making the small professor to narrow his eyes. The small professor was a man with sharp mind. So if his smallest Raven was brought here by Severus himself, it would probably because the dour professor was defending his smallest Raven from a certain Gryffindor after the said Gryffindor was caught and punished (or going to be punished) accordingly. Gryffindors had always been loathed by Severus, and Filius had no delusions of what happened to his childhood because of them, unlike Minerva and Albus.

"Who?"

Severus looked like he was debating to tell him before Martur's voice interrupted. "It's alright professor. He was given a detention by Professor Snape." He then smiled shyly. "Professor Snape also repaired the harp _atto_ sent me."

Filius raised an eyebrow at the child. "Oh? But your father had made it clear to me that he would like to have the list of the name of the children who likes to push you around." He noted that shy smile Martur gave when he spoke of Severus. Well now, Severus might or might not be seen as a hero figure by his smallest Raven, despite his villain-y looks and probably harsh ways.

Martur face reddened. "_Atto_ would never-!" Understanding seemed to made its way to Severus' mind the instant he said _atto_ right then and there, not that the other two knew it. He just understood who this Atto person was. It was the overprotective father of Mr. Makalaurion's. Young Makalaurion used another language other than English, it seemed.

"It was Dudley Dursley." Severus said flatly, ignoring Martur's stare of horror.

"Ah." Filius then nodded in understanding. Minerva got several complaints from Pomona, himself, and even her own students about Dursley's and bullying ways. She still didn't see it fit to teach him and show him a way of peace and understanding, almost similar to the situation of young Severus and her Marauders. There were even a few of his own students escorted by other professors similar to Martur and Severus before now thanks to Dursley. "What did Mr. Dursley do _this_ time?" He sounded resigned with having his students bullied.

Martur looked highly embarrassed and pleadingly looked at Severus.

The Potion Master looked almost amused, ignoring the boy's plea. "He had mistaken Mr. Makalaurion as a girl, for one."

Filius' eyebrows raised, almost disappearing behind his hair. "I thought by now everyone knows that Martur is a boy?" The look Severus gave him suggested that he too, thought of it. An amused smile appeared in Filius' face. "I suppose I should have seen this in the first place; Martur's father, Maglor, had once told me about him mistaken as a girl several times in his family inn." Martur looked scandalized that his father told the small professor about that. Oh, the boy was surely easy to tease.

"Professor!" His face was completely red.

Filius shot him a smile before turning to Severus. "And what's the next thing after that?"

"Mr. Dursley, it seemed, wanted to teach him a lesson." Severus drawled. With a student who liked to push other students wanting to teach a lesson, 'teach a lesson' would probably meant some kind of beating. Martur was small, and his age was but a toddler's age in the eyes of his father. If young Martur got a beating from Mr. Dursley, he feared for Mr. Dursley family; he still remembered what Dan had said about the businessman who used Martur and then lost everything, and what would happen to a person if he beat Martur?

Filius paled. The family of the person would suffer to the brink of insanity. From the little texts he had read together with his father from the goblin achieves when he was old enough to know what kind of works goblins do, Martur was an heir of a kingdom – and Maglor himself was once a High King when his older brother was caught before he gave the throne to their uncle. And who knew what kind of tortures that could be thought of by immortal beings, especially when the said immortal beings had killed another of their own kin and probably had seen the torture mortals made during his travels?

He hoped not to write any name to the list, but Maglor was a Slytherin in mind and a Ravenclaw in heart, it seemed. Filius _just_ had to give an Oath about that, didn't he? He prayed for Mr. Dursley's family's safety.

He turned to the little High Prince and eyed him for a moment. "You're not hurt, I hope?"

Martur shook his head quickly.

"If you don't mind, I believe I still have some work to do." Severus inclined his head before went out, completely ignoring Martur's shout of thanks towards him.

Which made it to be only Filius and his smallest student in the office. There was a small pause before Filius offered Martur something he probably would love. "Well then, Martur. Since we're here, would you like to help me in composing music I have in mind?"

It got Martur very interested. "What for?"

And they spent their free times composing a song which probably would be heavenly, seeing that it was the son of a great musician of all Ages himself that helped the small professor. Martur's harp also got the protections that the small child wanted, too. It became an evening of great benefit for them both.

Many of the professors got confused the next day, as of why Filius became much more cheerful than usual that he bounced whenever he went, almost like a child on sugar high.

* * *

><p>Maglor frowned when his work on translating now was of the texts that came from Gondolin herself. There were several different styles of Quenya, and while his mother language was Quenya, he didn't really understand Tengwar of Gondolin's Quenya and therefore he sent them to Glorfindel – after asking him to help his job on translating some texts to be given to the younger generations. Who would probably thought of them as fiction. But they made a good source for reading, nonetheless.<p>

He often thought that at least it may be preserved by Man in language that they understand, and thought of as myth or even fiction, as Tolkien's works were viewed as – though it was very much generalized history of theirs in Silmarillion – rather than forgotten. Man forgot many things, including how they were found by his cousin Finrod and taught of languages, how they fought together against the Enemy, along with dwarves and hobbits during the Third Age; thousands of years ago.

With the so-many texts that the goblins had, he might estimate that the day he would finish this job would be another hundreds of years, since he had other jobs, like singing and composing. He was not born a scribe, damn it. He was a singer! He wrote musical notations, not translations! Other elves knew him as the Mighty Singer; and to him they would come had they wanted to learn of the Lore of Music.

Ai, Gondolin! He suddenly recalled that his son often spoke to the warrior of how lovely Gondolin would be if the ruins were to be restored as Gondolin before her destruction, though he himself saw not – his son was on a short trip with the Balrog-slayer; he never went to the mountains where her city laid in rest; the place where his cousin Turgon once ruled and where Glorfindel dwelled as a Lord of the House of Golden Flower then and now as the keeper of her ruins, hidden behind the rocks and mountains. With the technology of mortals nowadays, he thought with amazement of how the city managed to be hidden from their views in plain sight.

There was a knock in the window to his office that had roused him from his thoughts and his job of separating different texts for now. Instead of the crebain he always expected (he always exchanging letters with Thranduil and Glorfindel in the topic of his son's education, being the youngest of the elven blood he was), it was an owl bearing a letter tied in its leg. It made him curious.

As he allowed the owl to drink and eat bacon he had provided (initially for the crebain), he read the letter a certain wizard who knew of his identity in days of old sent him.

_"To whom I believe shall read this,_

_ In this letter written a name that had appeared in the list you had asked me to write._

_Dudley Dursley_

- _FF"_

He raised an eyebrow.

Such a small world! When his son was still traumatized, thinking himself as a lowest of the low servant rather than a child, he kept on mentioning Petunia and Vernon as his relatives. England could be considered as a small place, and as his son recovered, Thranduil had taken it upon himself to look for a couple with those names. The name Dursley came up, and since then, they watched out for people with that last name, and the Dursleys never came upon them. To think that their son Dudley would come and bully the same child without them knowing it!

A strange coincidence, though it was an unpleasant one.

He pursed his lips and wrote a reply. The text he was translating wasn't a dire need for the goblins, and he literally had a lot of times. His time would end during the fore-told end of time itself. They could wait, but his son could not, for time itself was running, turning his son older before he knew it.

Hmm.

Perhaps he should pay Hogwarts a visit. Who knew what things had changed since a thousand of years ago, the time of which Salazar had asked of his blessings of protection to the mortal-made magical school.


	6. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: I don't own Silmarillion or Harry Potter

**Ch 5**

Martur was never really a crybaby nor was he a coward, if his _atto_ and uncles and godfather had anything to say about it. When his teacher Glorfindel had decided to teach him to use swords (his godfather taught him bows and arrows right after that for some reason…) and he got his hurts in his knees, hands, and many other places, he never did cried. When there were some scary men whose smile didn't at all made them look kinder like other people usually did said that they were to bring him to his parents, he didn't become terrified at all and scowled at them, knowing that they were lying (for he had no _parents_, only a _father._ Foolish statement, seeing that he only have a singular parent), and therefore dubbed them as evil people. But there were certain fears that he had not been grown up from, and they were all from his past.

When he saw Dudley for the first time during the Sorting, his heart was beating so rapidly, hoping that the bigger boy wouldn't see him. For he still remembered the traumatic bullying his cousin often subjected him into, back before he met his _atto_ and family. Until now, he had kind of expecting the fat boy to jump at him for a chance for a beating then and there.

And he did. And he damaged the harp that _haru_ had made from his _atto_ just like that! And the sound of the damage that time had been enough to cause tears in his eyes._ Oh no! _He had thought of that time, fear had clawed it's way to his heart. When he was still living with his relatives, he _knew_ that Dudley would be able to be freed of accusations of which then Dudley accusing him, doing things that Dudley did before.

For that moment, he had an irrational thought that Dudley would be able to do the same as he often did to him in the past, and his _atto_ would be angry at him for damaging the harp that _haru_ made thousands of years ago. Eru, he didn't want his _atto_ to be angry at him for the crime he didn't commit and disown him. But he would probably believe Dudley more so than him. The very thought had brought tears to his eyes, and he hadn't thought of it to be irrational. It was a past trauma he hadn't overcome, or even knew about it yet.

Imagine his surprise when professor Snape had caught them and putting Dudley into detention instead of him! He had heard from the rumors that had been going around the Gryffindors about the professor being evil and was once a 'Death Eater', whatever that meant. Did a 'Death Eater' was supposed to be a grim reaper of sorts? Professor Snape certainly didn't possess the beauty or grace of the Maia he had often heard from Glorfindel, which had made him a mortal, not a Maia, much less a servant of Mandos.

But that still didn't fix the fact that the harp had been damaged. He had been elated when the dour professor had repaired the harp for him and brought him to his own Head of House. So much for 'evil'.

But it wasn't the time for him to muse over the latest event that happened to him or about professor Snape and Dudley.

It was a day to learn to ride a broom. Martur looked at his old broom skeptically as he stood near his classmates that day – with Hufflepuffs. What Ron had said that time during the train was real? A broom to ride on and not to clean? Now that sounded ridiculous, as he always cleaned the house with brooms.

Elves weren't made for flying. Nor do people having elven blood running in their veins. (He dutifully ignored Elwing, who had transformed into a bird to get away from _atto_ and his uncle – and abandoning two important figures of forgotten mortal history in the process.)

And even if he was to fly, he thought to himself, he much preferred it would be flying on an Eagle rather than a broom. Eagles of old, Glorfindel told him, had many times brought people – or corpses – of grown elves back and fro. _Atto_'s uncle's and cousin's bodies, not to mention Glorfindel's charred remains in Gondolin and the well-known Mithrandir had been brought by them.

He did not fancy himself falling from heights again. That's one thing for sure. He firmly didn't believe that Lady Nienna (for she was often called as Lady Mercy, was she not?) would be most kind for him that he'd find a great chance of promising future like finding his _atto _again. For one, he was standing outside of the school surrounded by fellow students and there was no sea that always has many possibilities of the future for him. Two, while there was a lake, a giant squid was occupying it, making him to think of it as the offspring of that Watcher near the entrance of Moria that his twin uncles had once told him about their journeys. It still gave him chills that he and the other students used small boats to bypass its territory. Three, sitting on a stick – though admittedly it was sort of thick – with minimum security (by gripping the broom) while the wind caused by speed blew to him didn't seem to appeal to him, it only did the opposite.

And of course, the tales of which Neville Longbottom had fallen from his broom and broke his wrist last week did not help.

If anything, it made him tense. He could not help it. He had been hurt severely – almost caused him to pass to Mandos' Halls, his _atto_ once said, and he didn't say anything about that matter anymore; not that Martur wanted him to – because of falling from such high height. If the impact of falling in water (and those jagged rocks), what would happen to him if he fell to a solid ground from the same height?

The thought wasn't very comforting. Not at all.

His pale skin became even more paler; the tone became the shade of white that had been thought to not be possible to have in one's skin. Madame Hooch did not seem to notice, as she went back and forth, looking and fixing at how they handled their brooms. There were quite many (in his opinion) children to supervise their first (or not) flying training, and with this many children, there would probably be a few children who had fear of heights like him (his was mild, he told himself over and over again).

Let it be said that while Madame Hooch looked very pleased with his instinct, he never, _ever_ wanted to be high up in the sky again. Even if it _felt_ real good to have a freedom in the sky, he was not suicidal.

* * *

><p>"I'm telling you, Filius, your Maka-something is truly a miracle in flying! Why don't you ask him to be your seeker? It'll probably boost your team's morale in Quidditch! Oh, that small frame and such speed and grace he possessed… He said that it's his first time flying too!" Rolanda gushed to the smallest professor.<p>

Filius himself though, didn't share the same enthusiasm as hers. "I don't think that it will be wise to include a First-Year to the Quidditch team, Rolanda," he said. "There's a rule about this, now that I think about it. Not to mention his overprotective father he has…"

At that, Rolanda blinked. "He has such an overprotective father that he won't let his son to have some fun?" She asked incredulously.

Filius looked to his eyes heavenwards, silently asking what he had done in his life that the Quidditch-obsessed teacher had pester him so. Normally, he would have his students to sort their own members, and he would only have the final say, rather than anything. He was only in the tournaments since he was giving an example to his Ravens to be supportive of their own House. NORMALLY, she would talk about Quidditch to a certain Gryffindor Head of House who loved Quidditch, too.

The one Rolanda talked about was probably young Martur. He was the only Ravenclaw with the last name of 'Maka-something' as Rolanda said. Well. It was not like Maglor was very overprotective that he won't let his son to do anything 'fun' in the books of little boys. It was just that – from what he had gleaned from the goblin achieves (updateable now, thanks to a certain elf's efforts) about elven-born children, they were so rare that most couples only have one or two children in their long lives. The only family with most children written throughout the history was of Fëanor, who had seven sons, including Maglor. For though elves were immortal, it did not came without a consequence.

And there were times when Quidditch can be considered as a dangerous game.

Never to forget that.

"No, it's not that." Filius said. "From his father, and from what _I_ myself can attest, young Martur had more interest in creating music like what his father does. Do you not see how he often brought a harp everywhere nowadays?"

She raised an eyebrow. "He'd prefer music than Quidditch, then?"

Resisting to sigh, Filius answered exasperatedly, "that not what I just said!"

"Then what are you trying to say?" Rolanda asked, annoyed. "Can't you just put him inside your team?"

"No, that's not negotiable." Filius deadpanned. "Rules aren't made to be broken!"

It was Rolanda's turn to look heavenwards, asking why was it her friend Filius was this stubborn. "But don't you know that people nowadays _make_ rules so that they could be broken?" If Rolanda was a Hogwarts student, it was clear that she would be a Gryffindor over and over. "Not to mention his skill with brooms!"

"By Merlin, Rolanda! You do not know what his father is like; he will probably kill me and that idea will be banished once I say that to him." Filius said, quite annoyed by now. It was quite a feat, to be sure. "Besides, you don't know if Martur do like Quidditch at all! Hadn't you once said that Quidditch are meant for fun? What if Martur didn't found it to be fun at all, but rather terrifying? His stature is small, true, not to mention the perfect one to be a Seeker, yes. But he's still adjusting in the Wizarding World, and there are rules regarding students and Quidditch, there's also the fact of the Quidditch game needs a parent's agreement if he has one. And his father is Maglor Fëanorion!" He exclaimed, forgetting the fact that not everyone knows of the man of his subject.

"So what?"

"So what!" Filius repeated, aghast, before sighing in defeat. "Never mind that. I'll introduce you to him when he comes later on." He put his head on his hands. "I need his assistance for my choir class, that is…" He muttered to himself.

Unknown to them, a certain person had been walking by near them had heard their conversation, wondering who this 'Maglor' was. Surely he was never a Hogwarts student since his predecessor since he was a Transfiguration teacher that time. Filius spoke highly to this person (which had led him to believe that this person was a great duelist during the small professor had met when he was an active duelist), and there was no one in Hogwarts had that Fëanorion name. But there was one student who had the last name similar to Maglor – though only in a passing similarity. If it was a name in another language, then perhaps Maglor had attended Beauxbatons since it seemed like French. And if Maglor indeed was not an English name, then the English name should be almost similar. He should have Neville to ally with the child of Maglor, for the Greater Good.

* * *

><p>Suffice to say, it had made him confused as of why a few people he became acquaintances in the train approached him when he was sitting in the History of Magic lesson with Anthony; composing while his new friend was watching and gave him a question or ten about music that he didn't understand, with Neville leading a reluctant Hermione. It had been the other way around back then during the train ride. Where had Neville gained confidence to talk to other people and Hermione being angry at him? Was she still miffed at him for answering questions the teachers of Hogwarts posed to him?<p>

Ron was sleeping heavily that his snores could be heard by him in the other side of the room, and the same went to Dudley. Thank Eru for that. No offense for one Ron Weasley, but from what he had observed, he had been in the same group as Dudley the bully. And anyone in the group would be bound to bully anyone near their proximity when they were conscious.

"What are you doing?" Neville asked. He was right; the shy boy had suddenly gained a confidence – almost as if he had met a man that he had looked up to and the said man was giving him faith to be able to turn to someone better. Where had the shy boy he had made friends during their first journey to Hogwarts had gone to?

Martur's teacher Glorfindel had once commented that he had a small bit of foresight for people's physiology, since he himself had once went through torture and had faced many people in his young life by performing and those times when his godfather brought him to a business conference. That had proven very much true.

He shrugged. "I'm composing a song that I'll be singing in my family inn once I go back for holidays." Martur easily answered. "Anthony's just watching before you two came. Is there anything I can help you with?"

"Oh, nothing." Neville answered, and suddenly he became awkward again – shuffling his feet nervously while looking down at his shoes. Now it had told Martur – surely – that he had really met a person to boost his motivation, though for a short time. Now who was this mystery man? Martur asked himself. When Neville had looked up from his seemingly inner conflict, Martur braced himself. "Would you be my friend?" He had asked.

Well. Now that was a blunt, poorly-worded question though it was to-the-point. Hardly subtle, but from what he had heard from his upperclassmen, Gryffindors were often like that. From Hermione's face, she had thought of that too. "Really now Neville, you brought me along just to ask that to Makalaron?" She snapped.

"Makalaurion." Martur corrected absently, pretending not to notice the reddening of Hermione's face. She sure was a perfectionist. Sometimes girls were scary, he now decided. One might never know what they were thinking.

A heavy set of blush appeared on Neville's cheek, though he didn't react right away.

"Why?" Martur asked. One question – that one question he had asked was often uttered in the lips of many people, one question that had asked many unworded questions, questions that were never spoken. Martur had many questions of curiosity, not suspicion like most of Slytherin would have.

Neville muttered so lowly – that Martur had to strain his elf-enhanced ears to simply listen what he spoke of. "Professor Dumbledore said that you're a great person."

That statement in itself had led Martur to raise his eyebrows, similar to his _atto_ in his surprised face. The Headmaster must've been a person worthy of praise for Neville to have him act like this. Martur dreaded to imagine if Neville was aware of Glorfindel's legend and met him in person, if a mortal may led him to act this way. And did the Headmaster watch him in the slow weeks in Hogwarts? He thought not. If indeed, well – he never did saw the Headmaster during his godfather's business conference of his performances with his _atto_. If an old mortal was to spend his time to watch a youngling, it felt rather disturbing.

While many thoughts had ran inside Martur's head, Neville seemed to gain his lost confidence. "So would you?"

Martur tilted his head, thinking of possibilities. "Why should someone ask another people if they wanted to be their friends, when they haven't spent their time to get to know to another?" He simply asked, before inviting them to sit beside him. Quill lay forgotten in the half-finished parchment of which had written Tengwar and musical notes on it. Anthony, the quiet folk he was, acquiesced with his new-found companion's business with the two Gryffindors and chose to read while he wait for Martur to finish and wrote his composition again or simply read the book until the ghost stopped droning.

It was an awkward lesson Martur had, for the first time that he was aware of.

Perhaps it made him even more confused that the food around his particular area in the table of Ravenclaw suddenly increases in number. Oh, he knew of house elves, from the expedition to Diagon Alley with professor Flitwick last time (the professor had described how they loath freedom – Martur didn't miss how his father narrowing his eyes then) and from the books revolving magical creatures from library – and how many of their numbers worked in Hogwarts. (To be honest, he found it rather… insulted? Angry? Happy, even? That the small creatures shared the same name as another that had lived much, much longer before they existed, but everyone around him simply pitied them. He wondered _why_.)

But then again, he never knew of house-elves' history. How there was a story that they had adored – came from their very distant ancestor's relative called Bilba Labingi, fondly speaking of the existence of the First Born and the Elder Days. Of how the Ring had made by the Enemy's lieutenant by deceiving grandson of a mighty elf that was once known throughout the world by his Oath, and unmade by Bilba's very own nephew and heir, Maura in the mountain it was made. The history of elven-kind, the names of which they had partially claimed for themselves: house-elves. They knew the First Born hadn't abandoned them yet! The proof was the youngling they had several times saw – but had never clicked that he was of the noble blood of Noldor, no matter how he now brought harp almost everywhere he went. When the small professor had said his father was Maglor, oh how their hearts had soared! The One Who Sings now lives and his descendant stepped into the magical world where they had hidden.

They were beings that once were known as Halflings, _Kuduk_, _Periannath_, and lastly Hobbits – before they were cursed and degraded as creatures to serve and couldn't live without being bound as a servant to humans. Wizards that weren't like Gandalf or Saruman. Longing in their eyes had spoken many things of how they would like to listen to old stories from the mouth of the First Born themselves, had one looked closely enough and well-versed about that – which no one did.

So if one was to look at the situation from the house-elves' perspective, perhaps it was no wonder that they had spoiled (or so they thought) the child, hoping he would sing one song Bilba had composed thousands of years ago rather than new songs about who-knows-what in elvish language (though they would admit; what their great-great-grandparents or so had spoken of it did not do it justice).

Though they used a very wrong approach. But then, no one had guided them before in that aspect…

"One might think that the house-elves are trying to make you chubby, Martur." Penelope teased him.

Martur adopted a look of horror then, dropping his eating utensils as if they were evil.

Whoopsies.

* * *

><p>Halloween was fast approaching, and it was suddenly here. If it was a time for children in Hogwarts to celebrate for the people who had died in their lives by eating together in the Great Hall, it was simply a time for young Martur to be thoughtful of rather than celebrating the day of the dead with them. He always did so – as did his family in <em>Maglor's Gap<em> – during this particular day of the year, thinking of topics that were related to the day mortal calls Halloween. It could be said as depressing thought, but after death for his _atto_'s folks were clearer than after death of the mortals. As it was said, they could go through rebirth in body just like Glorfindel did or stay in Mandos' Halls until the End of Days.

But death really was a curious thing, Martur mused as he watched ghosts of Hogwarts float from one place to another with ease. A mortal's ability to die of old age was considered as the Gift of Man from Eru himself, and Martur supposedly be able to die like them. But now as he was given the blood of the Eldar, he himself was curious of if he would be given a choice to either live like a mortal or immortal, like Elrond and Elros; the first children his atto had fostered and one of them had sired his uncles Elladan and Elrohir while the other had sired great kings – though they had fallen from grace, sadly. He had not read much of the history of Men, but he at least remembered the concept of it during the Second Age. Of Third Age he hadn't read as of yet – though his twin uncles and reborn teacher had often told him as a story.

Of death. When _he_ had pushed him from the cliff into the waters, he might as well died, that time. But his _fëa_ hadn't left his _hröa _as of yet, when his _atto_ found him and gave him his blood for him to be able to survive. Speaking of the Incident, he still have nightmares of suffocating darkness about him and wasn't able to even breathe, and _atto_ never came. Survive he did. But it had left him to wonder of his own future. Would he be able to choose between the two Gifts?

He was still young, everyone around him had said. He still has some time to choose – for Elrond and Elros themselves had chosen their fates when they were barely adult. And the years in front of him to reach that age could be felt long for him. So he didn't bother himself to reach those kind of thoughts as of yet. The pros and cons of the thought were confusing, and he wasn't sure he'd understood of such now.

Death. Of that word, he often thought of his family; what kinds of deaths they had encountered. Of his _atto_, he had seen – and caused – deaths of the elven-folk. But he was a strong one, for if it was any other elves, they would surely fade instead of enduring their guilt in the shores of Arda. Of his twin uncles, they had often watched deaths of mortal men as had fought together against the orcs that was very common in the time. Of Glorfindel and his godfather, they would watch as their kin was slain by the Enemy and the spiders, respectively. Of his own, he often remembered how _they_ would speak about his birth parents being drunk and died in a car crash.

As he contemplates with the thought of death itself, his friends had to drag him down to the Great Hall – and for a small moment, he let himself being somewhat spoiled by Penelope for being the smallest Raven she had ever known of (aside from their Head of House). It was in the middle of the feast (or sweets-fest that his _atto_ would probably call it and disapprove of) that the door to the Great Hall slammed open, and a sudden attack on Martur's nose easily identified the person who entered the Great Hall as Professor Quirrel. The garlic smell was just _that_ strong, and the senses of elven-blood were also _that_ good.

"Troll! Troll in the dungeon! Thought you ought to know." The professor said without stutter before he collapsed.

Martur narrowed his eyes. He had never really thought of the professor – aside from his friends telling him of his incompetent teaching – but he knew the stutter was always made up instead of him having some kind of disorder since he was young. He had met a few stutterers that weren't made up (and those people he met were just people who were unnerved by his godfather's intimidating figure when they wanted to form business relationship with him, and stuttered subconsciously though they seemed frustrated with their degraded speech) and compared them to Quirrel. They never stutter in every word in the sentence whereas Quirrel did (from what he gleaned from his fellow Ravens).

But as Quirrel didn't seem to be interested in him in some way, he also held no love towards the stuttering professor. If there was really a troll in the dungeons, how was he able to outrun a troll? Something was wrong with the DADA professor. Yet he never spoke of it and allowed himself to be ushered by the Ravenclaw prefects to go to the Ravenclaw tower – far away from the dungeons. He never saw Neville went away from his House and tried to get his attention silently (which was obviously overlooked thanks to the many students inside the Great Hall), nor did he notice Hermione not being in the Great Hall.

The next day, however, he and every other student was told that a student was now in the Hospital Wing and a student being miraculously unharmed through his confrontation with the troll. They were Hermione and Neville respectively.

Still, he pondered why the troll was inside a supposedly perfectly safe castle/school and the mystery of the professor with purple turban.

* * *

><p>A young man far in Egypt was studying his letter. It was sent from a family member of his: the twins. He was a Weasley currently working in Egypt as a Curse Breaker employed by Gringotts; William Weasley, also known as Bill.<p>

If one was to see a person's soul, however, he could be identified as older than the objects he was sent to examine and break the curse that resided in it. That the birth mark in his left hand wasn't just a birth mark, but was a magical burn that came from a holy jewel that rejected him once long time ago before his rebirth as a mortal. That his left hand was dominant instead of his right – like common people – when he sought to buy a wand.

Maitimo Nelyafinwë Russandol now lives as a mortal, with a mortal mother and mortal father, and a perfectly mortal family. It might be a coincidence that the twin of his family houses the soul of Ambarussa, and thankfully together rather than separated through death. But perhaps Námo was kind, that he was able to found the twins not so far away; from the womb of their mortal mother. Although he must say that fate was cruel; the number of his siblings were six in total, the very same as his previous elven family with Atar and Amillë, with the exceptions of one of his sibling was a female and the difference of ages, and a few others.

He still remembered. And because of that, he couldn't help but compare this family to his first one. Charlie was similar to Maglor, though he was obsessed with dragons instead of music. Percy was uptight, almost made him think of Carnastir – although Carnastir was very much different than Percy. The twins were still the twins he remembered, though they seem to be more joyful and playful now that they were together at last. Ron was almost like Celegorm, in the term of his jealousy, and Ginny – the only female sibling he had ever had in two lifetimes – was similar to Curufin for her cunning.

And if anyone looked closely enough, it was almost as if he was _too used_ to be a big brother, that he had baby-sit his younger siblings with ease, back when he was still in Hogwarts. And to escape that depressing nostalgic feeling, he had gone to Gringotts for a job far away from England as a curse breaker. The twins had understood the most out of their big family, as they themselves used a way to escape that feeling by distracting themselves through prank plans.

He had often thought of his first mother and Maglor. Feeling guilty of how he had left them; he left his mother with all of his brothers and his father, and Maglor he left through fire with the burn of Silmaril in his left hand. But he never would have thought, that his brother; the first brother he ever had was in Hogwarts (in a way). He still has to go to Hogwarts just to make sure if the twins were right though. Now, if he has the reason why he was there to visit…

Ah now, who in their right minds would put a troll into a school?

* * *

><p>A lady who was often called as the Wise frowned from her sitting spot in the garden – a garden full of statues her hands had made of her sons; statues that looked like they were alive. She had missed her sons, and she was very saddened when Maia messengers were dispatched to her to tell her of the arrival of their <em>fëar<em> to Mandos' Halls one by one as she knew that she would never see them again until the End of Days – Arda Remade, as it was told in the prophecies. But out of all her seven sons, only one remained: Makalaurë, the one who has inherited her temperament and his gentleness was even gentler than herself – and while his sins weren't forgiven by every people who had suffered under his and his brother's hands, his songs had filled many halls in Valinor.

Her dearest Makalaurë; she had waited for him, and probably would do until the end of time, if it was needed for him to come back to her. Yet out of all her children, she knew him the best. Stubborn, prideful, the one who bore many traits of his father, but he was not Atarinkë or her beloved Curufinwë; he strove in music, not in metal or whatever geniuses the other two may create.

But imagine her surprise that a few years ago another Maia messenger had come to her to tell her that he had adopted a mortal child by blood. She had another grandchild, though Makalaurë himself did not sire him – but the latter information did not matter. Another child, oh how she wished his son to raise his children (or child) where she could reach him! She did not even know Elrond – her grandson through adoption, if one was to see it that way – well, although he was kind enough to visit when he has time to talk about his foster father.

But now it did not matter anymore.

Nerdanel the Wise was already too long inactive. She had met her spouse in her father's workshop – she was familiar with metals her father had used a tool to attack or defend during the Awakening of the Elves. Her father was Mahtan Aulendur the Unbegotten, and it had been more than a hundred yéni that she had last picked up a sword – even if it was for lessons that her father himself had decided to teach out of his paranoia; he once had a friend who never came back after they decided to went ahead before Oromë found him and the other Unbegottens.

Wise she might be, but even her wisdom did not prevent her husband and her children to be going to the place where her father once dwelled before the Eldar was brought into Valinor. Turukáno too, was known as the Wise, and he wasn't able to see past through his love to Aredhel's son to see his deception and betrayal – and his kingdom was destroyed in a single night. Even the Wise cannot see all ends. But even then, from she had gleaned from Elrond and one of her reborn nephews of what had happened in Arda; that if it was not because of her spouse's and her sons' actions, then they would probably never knew of the existence of Edain, and Elrond himself might never be born. Everything might be very much different, and who knows, if it was not because of her spouse's rash actions, Sauron and Melkor might still be trampling Arda with destruction and flames?

She would come to Middle-Earth, this time. To see her son, and her son's (adopted) son. She was not as rash as her spouse who now dwelled in Mandos' Halls, but if the Valar and the Teleri were to hinder her from her quest to get a ship to go to the East, they would find themselves missing one ship and no one would be killed.

In her determination, she never noticed that Aulë had approved her decision. Nerdanel - mother of seven sons of whom only one survived the War of Silmarils - had lived a difficult life in Valinor though there was no bloodshed. People belittle her for her being mother to monsters, and she had to live for many millennia without her beloved children until Arda Remade or she fade. But she was a strong maiden, of which Makalaurë had inherited much of her _fëa_ that he didn't fade in his travels in the shores of Middle-Earth out of guilt and sadness and regret.

Her path to Middle-Earth had been granted. It was time for her long overdue recovery through seeing her only surviving son. Even Valinor couldn't heal hurts that were caused by separation.

* * *

><p>He had once named as the High King of Noldor. He was by no means, great as his son in battle nor as famous through songs, but his deeds was never forgotten – written, though it was of small amount – that there were times historians of his folks often asked of him why he did that in the first place.<p>

Findekáno the Valiant he was known, and he was told to be the most faithful among the children of Nolofinwë. He had rescued his most beloved cousin Maitimo from Utumno when none can (or want) – though Makalaurë had wanted to do it in his stead, he was however a king, and therefore has most responsibility for his people at the time (the mighty singer hadn't wanted anyone he dearly loved to go to Utumno, although he had ignored the musician's plea for him to stay to rescue his cousin) – and had fought in great battles, of which his last one brought his younger brother to the throne.

He paused in his business – writing a report for his father, who was also reborn and his father-brother given the throne back to him – and wonder, as what he often did. Ever since he was reborn, he found himself with a sense of longing, as he knew he would never see his best and most beloved friend, which was his oldest cousin. For it was from the doom of Mandos, of which the sons of Fëanáro suffered the most; they would never walk upon Valinor, the land of their birth, until the End of Days. He was sure it would take a _long_ time, indeed.

And of course; a sense of longing to go back to the land he found to have many adventures that he always delighted, instead in the courts – where he daresay that it _bored_ him more than anything. He was always the adventurous sort, and his son too, had been one, though he might say that Ereinion was calmer than him, and delighted to be near the sea more than anything thanks to his upbringing under Círdan's wing and the genetics he had acquired from his mother.

While Valinor itself had been a land of adventure for his young self, Arda had provided more than Valinor, if he was given enough opportunities. But alas, he was a prince and king soon after his father had died, he wasn't able to hunt as far or as wide as he would've liked. Not that he could blame his subjects, as it was dangerous and treacherous, those times. Not safe with kinslayers running around freely, they said. It saddened him that they refer his cousins using the most filthy title they knew, as he couldn't blame them of doing so in desperation and anger after losing their grandfather, and father, and that oath!

Maitimo had been his best friend, and his younger brother Makalaurë was the gentlest Eldar he had ever knew. Tyelkormo and his youngest brothers Ambarussa had been great hunters that he would like to accompany them at times. Carnastir would help him sneak around – as he did that the best among them all – and Atarinkë, the most distant one among the brood to him, would send him most beautiful crafts for his begetting day.

But as he recalled during his time in Mandos' Halls, he never remembered ever seeing Makalaurë's _fëa_ – or anyone whose _fëa_ was close to his, in that matter. But then, no one had similar _fëa_ to Fëanáro or his sons; burning brightly as they were. Back in Mandos' Halls, there were six that were shining bright – though not as bright as their sire. The seventh one hadn't been there – Makalaurë was the last of them, and it seemed he had never died, seeing that there were no signs of him around.

But then a sudden thought horrified him. Makalaurë, that gentle, kind Noldo who loved to play music and sing that was said to be in par with Melian who had taught Nightingales to sing while he taught his younger cousin in the lore of songs and instruments, was _alone_ and from the last Eldar who had finally come to Valinor said was true, then he was lamenting in the shores for many, many years that Findekáno couldn't even fathom. By Eru, what happened to him? The musician should've be a famous, perhaps the _best_ singer that his Music might as well be one of the Music that Eru had created to be one of the Higher Beings, if he wasn't born to the House of Fëanáro and stayed with his mother instead of going with his brothers.

It was thanks to his teachings that he was able to overcome the darkness of which Maitimo was once tormented in, and how Findaráto was able to battle Sauron with the songs of power, though he lose afterwards. It was him who had shown mercy to the innocents, that mortals have leaders through his foster children and Arda have a way to disperse of the Ring that was created by Sauron.

Makalaurë, though he wasn't as close to the musician as he was to Maitimo, was a hero, though he was never acknowledged, sadly enough. And out of everyone, he felt that his cousin was the one who get out of the War of silmaril fiasco the worst.

And a cold terror filled his heart. He feared the worst happened to Makalaurë that his _fëa_ was unable to return to Valinor via Mandos' Halls, and how he suffered in the hands of mortals.

He needed to go. Go and find Makalaurë. _Now_.

* * *

><p>atto = Dad (Quenya)<p>

haru = grandfather (Quenya)

fëa = soul (Quenya)

Kuduk = hobbits (Rohirrim)

Periannath = hobbits (Sindarin)


	7. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Silmarillion or Harry Potter. They were created and owned by J.R. and J. respectively.

This is unbeta'ed. And please, review. I'd like to know what you think of this, seriously.

**Ch 6**

Unknown to the students, the troll had been killed during Halloween, and it had caused a secret uproar in the teacher's area. The manner of the death itself was unsettling. It didn't help that neither Granger nor Longbottom had clear memories of what actually happened that night, or how Severus, Minerva, and Quirinus had found them unconscious and wounded in the girl's loo. There was some sort of wound marks that suspiciously looked like stab marks all around the troll's body. After a light inspection, both students had no weapons aside from wands – and they barely learned any transfiguration to turn something into a knife, much less conjuration.

A light Legilimency on Severus' part had told them that Granger never had actual experiences with sharp and pointy things aside from knives from the Hogwarts Potions set that required her to cut and dice her ingredients, while she was aware that there was quite a lot of martial arts using weapons in the muggle word. Weasley was incompetent with them, since knives and such were used only by his mother to cook, aside from his older brothers using them for their own potions. And another inspection on the troll's body revealed that the wounds were rather deep and created by arrows, or so it seemed.

It was strange, bows require a rather large space to actually hit the troll deeply and slow time to draw an arrow (from their point of view), and from the manner of its death suggested that the troll was quick to dispose of.

Out all of the teachers who knew why the troll was inside Hogwarts, only Filius who had a wild guess as of how the troll died. And that was not counting how the mystery troll-killer in question was able to enter Hogwarts when the school was the safest place around (ignoring the threat from within). Oh, he knew of creatures living in the Forbidden Forest just outside Hogwarts, but didn't Hogwarts have some kind of magic barrier that would prevent them to come inside uninvited?

Now that was a curious thing.

* * *

><p>Blaise Zabini had always been an enigma, at least for his fellow Pureblood peers. Thanks to his mother's reputation of whoever would marry her, they would die and the Zabinis would get their riches, no one actually dared to get close to him aside from the children of well-known Death Eaters. It came to no one's surprise that he was rather closed-off kind of person. But it did came to everyone's surprise that he wasn't gloating his mother's success in raiding other people's treasures like Draco, the self-proclaimed Slytherin Prince liked to do. He was very quiet and observant, that it made others unnerved only by that.<p>

No one really knew this, but the Hat itself had considered to put him into every Houses. Gryffindor for his boldness (that no one really knew of, it was of the past that not even his mother was aware of), Hufflepuff for his loyalty (for a family he once has, and fallen apart), and Ravenclaw for his knowledge – he was able to speak with beasts, and he still can do it in this time and Age. Yet he chose to be in the House of Snakes.

He had always been able to speak with animals. Understanding of what they spoke of, the news they brought from other places. It had been his ability that had come along with him before even the birth of his mother. He knew the language of beasts for centuries, for the Music had been imprinted in his very soul. Body, race, and blood may change, but soul may not. He was the same Tyelkormo Turkafinwë Fëanorion as he once was.

Yet, instead of choosing Gryffindor, the House that probably fit him, he chose to be a Snake instead. He had always been bold, not sly. Slyness fits his two younger brothers, and he was the bold one along with the twins. But perhaps his ways now was heavily influenced by his mother's ways. Zabini, she told him once, was a neutral family that was bordering on the Dark. She had drilled it unto his head that she would not tolerate him acting like a reckless fool, as he was her heir. He submitted to her will for he knew that he knew nothing of mortal world of this Age and he knew he could not gain any riches he had during the First Age, but he would gain dominance and perhaps – perhaps he would look for his family in soul, no matter how long it would take. The Makalaurion needed to be watched, as his name bore – perhaps – a fact or a hint that the Makalaurë he knew was his ancestor or parent.

The castle was huge, and there were many occupants in it. The rats were carrying words from the forest – the centaurs. Centaurs talking to the unicorns, and words spread from the happenings of the Forbidden Forest. And the news was both good thing and bad.

He had always been a hunter, and he would know if there was a new hunter in his hunting place. The word spoke of the survival of Elven kind – it had him relieved that there was still a small resemblance of what the world he used to live in as Celegorm. He wasn't pleased to be (re)born to a mortal race. He supposed it was better to born as a Man rather than Dwarves that his brother was so fond of, however. He didn't want to be forever short. Another word, however, spoke of murder. A dark shadow was roaming in the lands of Forbidden Forest, and it had been eating up the population of the unicorns. Silver blood of the unicorns had been spilt.

And it was unforgivable.

Unicorns were divine beings (speaking of which, he had considered himself as one back then), and blood spilt had meant that the one who spill their blood was cursed. And no creatures had it in their minds to kill such a divine creature.

Except if their very being had been corrupted.

Or acromatulas, if one was to think about it. They were probably the descendants of Ungoliant. And Ungoliant _ate_ divine creatures. Just look at the Two Trees!

But the words had spoken – that there were no webs around the body.

It should be a mortal who had done this vile thing, he supposed to himself as he eyed the teachers sitting in the High Table. But which one was it? A few people seemed to be fit with his criteria of unicorn murder.

Then Draco demanded for his attention. He pushed the thought away and spoke of what he knew the young mortal was expecting him to say.

* * *

><p>Martur, despite his shy demeanor, created a bit web of friends and acquaintances here and there within Hogwarts quite easily. Mostly it was due to them being entranced with his music that they would like to hear it more and more – and eventually learning about each other's profile and so. He knew that it was not the healthiest way to make friends with others, but it was the only way he knew of, from the way he had sang and played his instruments in his family's inn.<p>

But the closest one to him, aside from Penelope, was probably Anthony Goldstein. He was the only one who had actually shown interest of his music and it's meaning (and him being one who's a lot like his atto, had taught the other Ravenclaw about it little by little, and that he didn't mind teaching it to others since it didn't really involve his family history – but instead, his talent). It was a well-known open secret in Hogwarts of his generation that he was the brightest Ravenclaw despite his absentminded ways (at times) just as Hermione being the brightest witch, and that Dudley Dursley was the biggest bully; almost as if he was a younger, Gryffindor version of Marcus Flint of Slytherin. All of them were muggle-borns, they would say. And of course, it was of the First Years' open secret. Anthony had taken to himself to escort him from one place to another just as other students made their own groups – ever since he had heard from their professor to stay away from the Gryffindors for the moment.

It didn't take long for all of the Ravenclaws to take the clue of that was really saying that: to stay away from the Gryffindor (and Slytherin that was leaded by one Draco Malfoy, who was perhaps one of the few noted students of his year) bullies and go in groups since safety came in numbers. But they were not as friendly to each other like the Hufflepuffs due to their competitive natures, that they were separated in small groups instead of one big group as they're supposed to be. Boys with the boys, albeit separated, and the same went to the girls.

His friends and acquaintances of other Houses ranged, from the First to Seventh Year, Gryffindor to Slytherin. It did not include the bullies since they were mostly envious of his somewhat popularity with people thanks to his music that they would try to sabotage his plays at times and called him names. Most of them though, knew few to nothing about music, which was a shame, really. The only people knew of music were in professor Flitwick's extracurricular lesson of both muggle and Magical music – or more precisely, a choir.

But then, they would ask for some advice to him rather than sabotaging him.

But then again, there were choir people who didn't take his singing – and apparently professor Flitwick had taken a shine for him to use him for an example, even if he wasn't in his class, like _ever_ (except if, _if_ the small professor asked him personally) – well, that they often tried to out-sing him that ended up in them having sore throats and heavy breathings. Something about wanting to be soloist of the choir instead of some other person in the choir when he never came to the said choir practices. Quite pathetic, to be honest.

"They're really unto it, aren't they?" Martur asked Anthony quietly after one of those singing competitions that the jealous choir members had dragged him into. It was probably a good thing that choir members weren't jealous enough to ruin his voice with some spell, if such spell existed.

The taller boy nodded curtly – as was it was his nature to do things quite quickly and necessarily. And yet there was his curiosity… "They don't take it well; you having better voice than them, though you did not boast it or anything." He said. "People are just competitive, though with the way you've spoken of your family inn, I've been wondering how your father hasn't got any competitors yet…"

"Oh, he certainly has many competitors." The young musician answered. "But they knew their limits, what's with _atto_'s voice; I mean, even if _atto_'s only _speaking_ to other people, there's something in his voice that makes people be entranced by it, you know? They're only competing for fun, in his case. He told me that his actual competitors for singing skill are in the other side of the world, and he was living a life in this part of the world, so…" He shrugged.

"Your father's actual competitors are in America?" Anthony spluttered. "I thought that with that voice you're singing, your father – who's probably your teacher – is a classical singer of sorts, and many classical songs come from either Europe or Asia, not America!"

"Oh yes." Martur nodded. "But it's their job in some music school, _atto_ mentioned to me." He decidedly did not mention anything about America. Let his friend try to sort it out by himself, since he hadn't trusted his friend enough with the information of his father's more accurate information or anything, not to mention that he didn't know if his friend had already shielded his mind. He had been told that there was such technique to look at people's mind, after all. And while he was taught by his father to shield his mind, he could almost feel the other's mind's noisiness. But it might be his magic or something speaking rather than his elven sense.

Anthony hummed. "Isn't your father getting lonely then?"

Martur shrugged. "There's my twin uncles…" He left his sentence hang.

The other boy paused. "Ah."

Of course, not even them, who weren't Slytherin, were left alone from the pranks of Weasley twins. At least their pranks weren't damaging his harp, though… Perhaps it showed them that the twins considered their victims' feelings too? – that they weren't malicious pranksters? Probably.

If he didn't know any better though, he might've thought of them to be some kindred to own his twin uncles, like his _atto_'s twin little brothers whom Martur would never meet in the near future. But still – it's been told that male twins would grow up to be pranksters. There was Weasley twins of this generation, and he had read something about Prewett twins of Hogwarts of their days…

He hadn't mentioned to the other boy, but the generations of twins in the line of his great-grandfather (that were probably the only record of twins in elven – albeit royal – line) were mostly mischievous too. Just look at Ambarussa and his twin uncles' father and uncle! From the stories of his _atto_, anyways. He had read somewhere of some Doriath records about Elured and Elurin before the attack from three of _atto_'s brothers about their mischief too…

So yes, the answer would probably satisfy Anthony's concern. With his experience with the Gryffindor twins, it was pretty much self-explanatory.

"I pity your father for that then." He dead panned.

Martur only hummed. His _atto_ had experience in raising twins – his younger brothers first, and his foster children second. The third one shouldn't be as hard as the first two since he was used to it. Well, he had managed it before he came to the picture – but it didn't stop him to having a longing to go back to that picture…

Sensing the change of mood of his companion, Anthony decided to change the topic, lest his younger companion would go into depression. It wouldn't do for Ravenclaw's resident star student and song bird to go into that kind of state… "By the way, how did you get into professor Flitwick's good side?"

That was probably the biggest mystery in the Ravenclaw – not that Martur was aware of it.

Professor Flitwick showed an absolute favoritism to their smallest member even _before_ the lesson started. There were times when the tiny professor would come to the Ravenclaw just to bring their smallest member personally for something that he didn't speak of – but with his face expression, he definitely enjoyed it. There was a theory of them being having the same ancestry, but with many of them imagining their songbird as a quarter goblin didn't sit well with them that they discarded the idea immediately after they thought of it. For one, goblins have rough and scratchy voice and not even as melodious as Martur. And while it was possible that his voice came from the side that was pure human, but he didn't have semi-claws like their professor had or any characteristic of goblins. Only that shortness. But it was possible too, that the shortness came from some wizarding disease that allow the victim to grow much more slowly than normal wizards with normal growth rate.

Martur shrugged – a bad habit he had gotten from his twin uncles whenever they got into trouble (almost all the time) and were looking for some excuse. "Through _atto_, I suppose. He and professor Flitwick's people has quite a history, if I'm not mistaken."

Anthony thought that it was Martur's family and professor Flitwick's goblin kin were quite close. It was probably the most logical conclusion. He must say that he was curious though… "Eh… I never thought that there's a family that has close ties with goblins without them having goblin blood." He stated.

"That's close, what you've said." Martur mused so quietly his older friend almost didn't hear. The taller one noted of that statement, unknown to the shorter one. "But no, _atto_ is most respected in goblin society." He said, confident about it.

Anthony raised his eyebrow. "Your father is respected in goblin society…?" He looked amused as he spoke. "This erases the possibility that you're a muggleborn."

"I'm a half-blood at best." Martur stated wryly. And it was true – at least half of his blood was elven thanks to that blood transfusion/adoption those years ago… (He didn't know it, but when he was still a pure-human, he was a half-blood in the eyes of wizard society, so…) "Why did you guys theorize about my origins anyways?" He asked, genuinely curious.

Anthony snorted. "Oh – you didn't even know half of the reason just why, Martur…"

* * *

><p>The sound of footsteps was almost unheard, if it wasn't thanks to the person who walked that intended for his footsteps to be heard. The long, endless, and <em>hollow<em> hallway that he walked was lifeless, devoid of sound of laughter or even the sound of fountains (which had dried long, long Ages ago) that was set just outside the building.

In Gondolin, the dead and hidden city of the Eldar in the mountains, he had dwelled since he had finally found it – in secret, behind the machinations of mortals he once took part in a few centuries ago. He had not ruled, as that part belonged to the Sindarin King – of mortals politic too, he supposed – and the minstrel who had fallen from grace who was of royal – albeit forsaken – blood of Fëanor. All that was left from Gondolin was her white walls and white towers that were covered with plants, almost made him think of Elu Thingol's whereabouts – or so he was informed from the books Maglor sent him (did the minstrel had foreseen of his boredom that he had asked him to help him to translate, out of all things?). And of course, the white birds that once inhabited the city came back – complete with their songs that were sweeter than lullaby.

It never ceased to amaze him how Arda's geography could change so drastically. Since Gondolin was located in the middle of _Atlantic Ocean_, out of all places. He supposed he would never cease to be both amazed and terrified by the power of Valar and Eru. The way Gondolin and other realms aside from Lindon in Beleriand were almost completely destroyed, drowned and then lifted as separate islands… It was a good thing too, that Gondolin's remains weren't as damaged as he thought, after so many years being a battlefield of the War of Wrath, drowned and being home for sea creatures… Wasn't as damaged as Númenor, at least. Númenor – or what mortals now called as Atlantis, was now could be barely said as a remains of a big civilization as it once was. Perhaps it was the difference between mortal and elven work? Though Gondolin's seven gates had been almost completely demolished. Only remaining gates – though it was deformed, were of Silver, Gold, and Steel.

But of course, it wasn't why he walked inside the House of Tower of Pillar and the Tower of Snow. Penlod, he recalled, had often boasted of how huge his library – it was as big as King Turgon's within his House of the King, at the very least. Yet, miraculously, she was the least damaged among all buildings in Gondolin, and the House of the King bore most damage – as a mockery to their King.

House of Tower of Pillar and the Tower of Snow… Her emblem had been long lost – as did Ecthelion's and Elgamoth's respective Houses, unlike the others of which emblems had barely survived through the Ages, just like his House emblem of golden flower upon green field.

Library of this House however – achieves, books, and scrolls were destroyed, burned, scattered, that it was no longer legible to be read or fixed, and lastly, drowned. Everything in this library, he had Imladris transfer her books – for Imladris held the least percentage for surviving this Age of Men, by the hands of mortals themselves. There was no longer Elven Rings of Power, for the knowledge of how it was made rests with Celebrimbor and his smiths during the Second Age and the power of Narya, Nenya, and Vilya had disappeared as Sauron fell during the Third Age. There was no longer mystical power to protect the now non-hidden Imladris, though she was still filled with a few occupants who embraced too much of the past – just like he was currently. Even if they had the magic to protect Imladris, it would not last forever since they were no smiths or Lore-masters who were skilled with magical creations, nor would minstrels be able to sing forever. But Gondolin was now an island out of many islands that were scattered in Atlantic Ocean that mortals would have difficult time to look for – if they knew what to search. People would see that it was a barren island thanks to the mountains that surrounds Gondolin were barren and rocky.

Lindir was a fool, but he – Glorfindel – too, was a fool. He just had to admit that to himself.

While with Age came wisdom, they said, many times did the wise could be called as a fool. Lindir was younger than him, yet their thinking clashed with each other, that they had many disagreements about living arrangements within the Modern Age of Man. So here he was, in the ruins of Gondolin, covered with a lush of green that it was difficult to see the outlines of the old kingdom while surrounded by mountains, and alone. Most of the warriors of Imladris he had trained had either fallen or sailed, for their loved ones were in Valinor and safe.

He was now walking towards the library Penlod so fond to talk of, to correct a few things he had found in a book of a so-called author of Gondolin's history. Now he knew how Erestor, his dear friend who was probably the same seneschal as usual in Elrond's house in Valinor, always felt whenever there's an idiot writing about many things they didn't actually research before writing – he supposed. He was a warrior first and foremost, that of many Ages ago, he never had anything to do with the library – except for those times he had to collect Erestor so that the little bat wouldn't forget to eat supper as he often did. As that seneschal descended from the House of the Fountain, he certainly only have the looks of his sire instead of the expected similar personality and love of silver.

Hm… Speaking of which, perhaps he should have that little minstrel to come more often for his studies in Gondolin dialect – and a lesson of truth and false within a book. Not to forget his swordsman lesson too. That school of his was really degrading, he thought. Perhaps he could ask the old minstrel for a proposal for physical education in that school. But then he'll need a help from Thranduil's people to maintain Gondolin like what he was doing – just so Gondolin won't have more damage from the plants of which roots have already ingrained deep into the walls and that the plants would be enough to cover Gondolin from mortal eyes.

Hiding in plain sight, was one of the best hiding techniques he knew of.

And of course, for the school – Maiar were too high of a name for those kinds of arrogant people who probably thought physical was of no use, even if it was of their own body. They did not possess fëa of Maiar, too, as far as he could tell. But wait – Istar was still too high of a name; he'd call them Sorcerers.

Yes, that fit the mortals with magic of this Age. Istari he knew of – they were of high power who could manipulate nature itself instead of practical, weak use that made them forget that they could do the same using their body. Not that he underestimated their ancestors, however. That Godric… He was worthy of a swordsman and the name of Istar, though he did not possess the fëa of Maia.

Ah – such a good thing that the library was located in the highest tower of Penlod's House! He could see almost see the sea – or so he think to himself. The air of the sea was marvelous and – _was that an owl_?

What an owl was doing, flying towards a barren island? – oh wait. He really should have be used with the Sorcerers' method of communicating by now, since those years ago of which the Sindarin King who-probably-didn't-have-much-to-do-in-his-free-time had introduced him to 'wizarding methods'. Just look at that floo system he had installed to the House of the Harp and the vanishing cabinet in his personal rooms.

But wait. Why Maglor used an owl instead of that floo?

Just as he let the disgruntled owl into the library and fed it one of a few snacks he had brought for himself, he opened the letter and felt his face reddened.

_Dear Laurëfindil,_

_I must say for the behalf of us Eldar living in the Mainland that you should check the vanishing cabinet and the floo in the House of Harp more often. There have been complaints about you from the majority of our people living in here about your ways of sudden isolationism and you not responding their letters. It wouldn't do that a hero of many songs to distance himself with his kin and peers, or so they say. We have so many news we have to share with you, as does your young pupil after we last seen you – which was a few months ago when you gave him a book about Gondolin in our mother language. _

_And if you receive this message, then I am thankful that you're still alive, little flower. _

It was true that he rarely opened the vanishing cabinet or even visited the House of Harp, but that minstrel shouldn't have reprimanded him as if he was an elfling (although it was refreshing for a change and that the minstrel was truly the oldest Eldar in Middle Earth with him being the not-so-close second in terms of being born in the Age of Two Trees since that old coot actually _taught_ him the art of using harps during his childhood, but he wouldn't even speak of it)!

_What I am sending you is urgent, yet I don't think I have the time to go personally to Gondolin. I myself did not know the way or where you are due to the largeness of the city (or as large as my son told me once) as I'm only looking for only one person inside a city that I never came before. _

_A troll was unleashed within Hogwarts._

And… A troll within this Sorcerer's school?

_And Hogwarts was supposed to be the safest school, or so they say. These mortals were so inaccurate of their safety estimation process, don't you think? _

Now this statement just made him to decide that: these sorely lacking-in-defense young Sorcerers needed an instructor to do things that they should do if they're faced with such situations. Just how such a violent and dark creature did entered a school that was said to be the safest place? Even mortals with no magic had better security than this school. Safe – Morgoth's teeth. Those mortals lacked common sense. And his youngest student happened to be in that place.

Be prepared, Hogwarts. Glorfindel was coming to set your priorities straight, amongst other things. For he would protect whoever it was under his charge, including the kinslayer's son.

Once he had gotten Maglor to write a proposal to the headmaster, anyways. He had never one for politics and books, and this editing Gondolin dialect? It had been pushing his buttons, never mind that he would probably the only one who could translate it to mortal language these days or the fact that it somewhat brings back those glorious memories of Gondolin. He should try to teach the other Elves of Gondolin dialect, lest he'll be drowned by the bane of all warriors that existed in this plane: paperwork.

* * *

><p>Somewhere in Valinor, a Maia whom later would be Oromë's chosen one to be sent across the Sea along with other First-born, frowned as he re-read the message that his fellow Maia, Eonwë gave him earlier in that day. It was unusual for him to be chosen to do anything, out of every Maia his Master had in his halls – since his role had been fulfilled, and Eru had saw it fit to change everything <em>slowly<em> for the sake of His Second-born.

Just for that very reason, both him and his partner had not been steering their respective vessels of the Moon and Sun ever since the middle of the Fourth Age. It wasn't him to steer the Moon, but it had been his own Music that had given the Moon a force – a movement – by making it walk by itself instead of him needing to do just that, around the world with uncertain pace. And it wasn't his partner who steered the Sun anymore, for it was with her own Music that had Arda to move around her former vessel.

He was otherwise known by most, if not everyone who were living in Valinor as Tilion – the Maia who once steered the Moon.

Yet there in his hands was a proof of the existence of his services being needed once more by Lord Oromë, the one who he served. He didn't disapprove it, since life without doing anything had proved to be dull, and his partner had shared his sentiment with him – that she dwelled much more often in the House of Aulë to do more things rather than nothing at all. But he was a lover of silver and a hunter first and foremost, that he spent his days in the forest that Lord Oromë had around his abode.

He just had to say: he needed an adventure. Never mind if it's just steering the Moon around, he got to see many other silver stars that Varda had set on the night sky much, much closer! It would make the First-born envy, if he had read them right. But then, there could be a tidbit about mortals landing on the Moon… He wondered if he was still up there on his former vessel and the mortals came. What would they react?

He should say that he envied the other five Maiar that were chosen to go to Arda, back in the Second Age of Sun and Moon – since he himself could not do that. And that's not to say anything about his friend Eonwë's role during the First Age of Sun and Moon. Why did he not think of the consequences of being the one to steer the Moon in the first place?

Well – he was Tilion, and he was known as one of the most reckless Maiar, was he not?

He accepted the request of his Lord without further thinking of the matter. He needed an adventure – and it was probably the only reason why he chose to be Lord Oromë's follower. And he would answer his requests and orders without question for anything that came from his Lord will create an adventure by its own. He was confused as of why most of his fellow Maiar who also served Lord Oromë would betray him though…

Arda had better be prepared for him, that's for sure.


End file.
